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TERASSA 


of Spain 


HORACE FISH 

11 

AUTHOR OF 

THE GREAT WAY 



NEW YORK 
MITCHELL KENNERLEY 
MCMXXIII 


COPYRIGHT, I 923 BY 
MITCHELL KENNERLEY 



PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES 


MAY 3i ’23 4 

©C1A704726 0 

JtA IV -r 



7 


TO 

WILLIAM VAN WYCK 

WHOSE BRILLIANT COMPANIONSHIP HAS 
ENRICHED MY EXPERIENCE 



TERASSA OF SPAIN 


I 

ESPOSITO 

7 

II 

DESPERADO 

54 

III 

EUEGO 

76 

IV 

SIMPATICA 

100 

V 

SUB ROSA 

134 

VI 

APASIONADA 

157 

VII 

SPANISHING HANS 

217 

VIII 

THE HORNS OF EL DILEMMA 

251 

IX 

INSTRUMENTO 

279 

X 

THE FIGHTING IRIS 

315 








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TERASSA OF SPAIN 


I 

ESPOSITO 

T N the padre’s ancient church, above the Chasm 
A Road, a golden sunrise crept and kindled. It 
preceded the earliest of Terassa’s sons and daughters 
on a more exciting day than any they could seem to 
remember. It was a September sunrise, irradiate 
with a sustaining warmth that circled around the 
gradual hill and broke into drifting bits the cold 
night mist that slept, like a long dragon, with its 
nose in the chasm, twisting itself backward toward 
the great curtain of the Pyrenees. Mysterious and 
lavender-capped, one purple mountain outguard rose 
in the distance behind Terassa, beheaded by eternal 
white winter from June to June again. 

As its gray, and lavender, and crowning white 
shimmered out from its melting nightdress, showing 
its gaunt lines softened and shifting, the molten sun 
rays advanced like an army in the small house of 
prayer. They inflamed more than half its mellow 
walls. They bathed its altar, spired with quietly 
burning tapers and weighted with tribute of red-and- 
yellow poppies, as in liquid cloth of gold. In their 
light, Violeta, the most beautiful girl in the village, 
was being married to Antonito, Terassa’s only true- 
born son with yellow hair. 


8 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


Before them, unable to see his book through the 
silver gathering and glinting in his vision, the padre 
stood, and behind them Margarita, the pale bride’s 
foster sister, her dusky diamond eyes alight and her 
right arm flowing over with yellow roses, forced in 
her own small hothouse against the famous marriage. 

Beside them was Old Rosa, she who had foster- 
mothered both these lovely women, with now her black 
eyes snapping below hair as cold and shining as the 
mountaintop, out of a soul as near to heaven; while 
thirty small male children sent their voices thither¬ 
ward in a hundred times “Ave Maria.” 

Violeta and Antonito went down to the Chasm 
Road, and along it toward the distant purple, leav^ 
ing the motley-hued crowd of townsfolk grouped be¬ 
fore the church. The thirty young boys danced 
before them as far as the last house back of the de¬ 
scending hill, singing on—but now an earthly song, 
as tinkling as a tambourine, and full of the red 
rhythms of the tarantela^—made by Valverde, in¬ 
deed, and sung in the play at Madrid. 

Drinking wine at this last dwelling place, and leav¬ 
ing there the padre’s thirty sons, Antonito and his 
wife went onward through the chasm in a tidy cart, 
driving their donkey very gently through the deep 
shadows that lay under the remaining shreds of 
morning haze; nor did they speak at all until they 
had come to a pilgrims’ box, deep sunk in moss high 
up above the roadside, where Maria, the pink of her 
cheeks and the blue of her robe near washed away 
by many rains, held out her son’s bleeding wooden 
heart. Here, climbing the steep embankment with her 
husband’s aid, Violeta sacrificed, upon the weather¬ 
beaten hands, her wreath of orange-tree blossoms. 


ESPOSITO 9 

These, too, were from her foster sister’s little house of 
greens, that had the glass windows for a roof. 

“Oh, my Tono—esposito!” she said, turning from 
them with a long breath like a sigh. “Here we leave 
youth! In this place, if our marriage be blighted, I 
would die! Or, if it prosper, here may I end old age! 
For here youth ends!” 

He took both of her hands in his, and for the first 
time on their nuptial day looked full into her wide, 
strange, violet eyes. 

“Esposita,” he answered, “my beautiful, my per¬ 
fect esposita, has not the padre told us: ‘Here life 
begins ?’ ” 

> 

Terassa stretched up and onward round the wav¬ 
ing hillside, and her square, beribboned market place, 
shining proudly in the centre, topped like a festive 
hat the sloping, trim-cut vineyards. Down below, 
the padre’s flowering Fields of Industry painted the 
skirts of fair Terassa with colours quite as gay, 
albeit Ugly Rosa’s small dwelling, on the opposite 
side of the sunny road, bore a humbler aspect, more 
as in the days before the prospering times of Padre 
Pedro. 

Just as Ugly Rosa, carrying her name for her 
truth-telling tongue and not for her wrinkled face, 
was the padre’s favourite townswoman, so his Fields 
of Industry were his favourite pastime; and to their 
furtherance he devoted his children, all thirty of 
them, and also his chosen of all mankind—Antonio, 
who because of his beauty had to be called Antonito 
—Antonito with the laughing mouth, and olive skin, 
and yellow hair. 

They were fields of industry in truth, but only in 


10 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


the moderate hours of the daytime; whereas at night 
they were of sleepy flowers: interchanging rows of 
red and yellow poppies, that rested from their tend¬ 
ing in the noontide hours also, that they might drink 
the golden sun rays down into their stems until the 
canopies were hung again, and the padre’s thirty 
sons, with Antonito alternately grave and gay, came 
once more among them with watering can, and scis¬ 
sors, and trowel. 

Of the padre’s busy children some were twelve 
years old, and some were only eleven, or ten; and one 
was barely nine. This was Tito, for he had seemed 
to the padre so small and motherless that he had 
named him after Titus, who had suffered, like Maria’s 
son, on a cross. They were orphans, Ruby said; 
but Terassa did not call them so, for that which 
had taken off their parents had given back to them 
a mother and father rolled favourably into one— 
one with the face of a generous man, and skirts to 
cling to as to those of a kindly woman, and, above 
both, the hat of a beneficent priest. 

This morning was the last before Terassa’s day of 
coming history—the long-struggled-for first day of 
her first Wine Festival. The thirty little boys were 
at prolonged instruction in the padre’s house by the 
church on the Chasm Road, and Antonito was alone 
in the poppy fields, leisurely stretching the three 
striped canopies; one sloping from the wall over the 
violet beds to the statue of San Miguel, where it 
hitched, by a ring, to his spear; one from two tall 
sticks, to the acacia tree; one, on four stark poles, 
along the road; and Antonito did this with little 
effort, for he was now so skilful that when the 
padre’s sons were come under the last canopy, he 


ESPOSITO 


11 


could lift the roadside canvas on all its props intact, 
and carry it on for them to the third succeeding 
space. 

“What say you to that?” the Padre Pedro would 
ask of the Ingles, or of other travellers. “Has 
Sweden, or, I may say, America, such progeny in 
its littler towns, with youth and unusual beauty, and 
skill thrown into the bargain? And then, amigos , 
through and above all, a pure heart? See his yellow 
head! Mark it, here among our dark-haired nation, 
and presently I will point out to you his wife, the 
most beautiful woman in Terassa, who is like the 
lovely night, when I hope you pray, good strangers. 
Tell me, as man to man, or man to his confessor, 
have you such beauty, and such industry, and to 
boot, such marriages, in your Russia, or your own 
Ohio?” 

And even those who smiled were drawn into his 
reverence for God’s workmanship when he called 
over Antonito for surveyance, and they looked, for 
themselves, upon his yellow hair, and olive skin, and 
clear green eyes. 

Far down the winding road, where it curved 
toward Ruby in the way to distant Barcelona, faint 
dust rose into the morning air, and Antonito, watch¬ 
ing from under the last canopy, speculated whether 
there should be travellers, or wine merchants, or 
jealous citizens from Ruby. A half of an hour would 
tell, perhaps a quarter of an hour. 

“Antonito!”' called a voice. “Antonito !” 

Old Rosa, erect and straight as her long toll of 
years, stood in the warped gray doorway of her 
house, and was summoning him severely from across 
the road. Antonito stepped, with his lithe and 


12 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


swinging gait, to the edge of the red and yellow field, 
and smiled at Ugly Rosa while she spoke at him. 

“Are you a pagan? Or a gentleman, perhaps? 
Are you a rich man from Barcelona? Shall you 
wait for the children and stand idle meanwhile? 
Shall you watch the dustclouds and not remember 
that visitors will need wine ? And do you think I am 
so young that I can lift a new keg myself? Shall 
cruelty grow with yellow hair?” 

“Why not tell your need to begin, and my sins 
to follow?” asked Antonito, laughing, with his hands 
spread out. “I could have lifted your wine while 
you scolded!” 

Crossing to her house, he entered, and brought out 
a keg of festival wine to the table before the door, 
filled her bottle for her, and set it beside the kegj. 

“Now shall I fetch the strangers, madre, and open 
their mouths, and pour the wine down, and, if God 
will, become sick for them?” 

Old Rosa, kissing her palms, boxed his ears with 
them; and Antonito, dodging and laughing, ran 
back across the road. 

Toward Barcelona, the world was motionless. 
The cloud of dust had disappeared behind a distant 
hill. Antonito stood idle among the waiting poppies. 
Old Rosa pinned a square of lace upon a pillow, and 
ravelled out a length of faulty thread. Up in 
Terassa, out of the vineyard, stretching to the 
church, Padre Pedro came behind his drove of sons, 
urging them slowly before him like a swarm of bees 
between the low gray walls of the descending high¬ 
way. 

When the pupils were dispersed, scampering but 
orderly, in the shade of the drooping canopies, Padre 


ESPOSITO 


13 


Pedro, in a sonorous voice, but sweet, catechized 
them: 

“What has a poet of the English called the red 
poppies, in the language of poets?” 

And they answered correctly in chorus: 

“He has called them ‘great red bubbles of blood.’ ” 

“And what have we ourselves named the yellow 
poppies, and where are they grown for evil ends, as 
well as good?” 

“We have named them ‘golden chalices,’ to hold 
the blood; and they grow for bad ends in Asia.” 

“And for good ones, too,” cautioned the padre. 
“And, after God, to what shall we dedicate them?” 

They shouted the answer: “To our country—the 
red-and-yellow flag of Spain!” 

“Right. Work well to-day, for with sundown 
comes Terassa’s holiday for seven days; and when 
the stars come out, it must be to see our finest flowers 
in patterns about the dancing green in the square. 
Praise Maria, and obey Antonito!” 

And Padre Pedro went to the other side of the 
road, where he sat down with Old Rosa on the door¬ 
step of her house, and drew one of her arms under 
his, away from the lacework spread upon the pillow 
in her lap. 

“So you have put out wine for the visitors,” he 
said, noting the table under her trellis of grapevines. 
“Can you be so rich, when you wear this dingy 
gown? Is it for some sin that yours is the first 
house on the road to Terassa, so that you slake 
thirsts to the benefit of dwellers farther on? You 
shall have a dress of white muslin from Barcelona, 
out of the poppy money, else I will reprove you in 
the public square.” 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


14 

Old Rosa withdrew her arm from the padre’s 
gentle hold, and put it at work again on her lace. 

“At fifty, even a priest should talk sense,” she an¬ 
swered sharply. “At seventy, I may tell you so.” 

The padre laughed. 

“For punishment of disrespect,” he said, “you 
shall have no muslin gown, but a linen one, with a 
border of roses in pink thread. So be it. Now,” 
he added, in a more practical tone, “what is the 
news ?” 

“It is no news that you spoil Antonito.” 

“You evade,” said Padre Pedro. “Therefore you 
have news—the first in fourteen days.” 

“You yourself have told Terassa not to gossip.” 

“You evade again. Therefore your news is bad. 
You are not Terassa—you are a cross and godly 
woman. You help me to guide my chosen flock. 
What is your news?” 

Old Rosa paused in her work, and glanced at him 
swiftly with her jet-black eyes. 

“Violeta weeps,” she said, and, looking back at 
her pillow, pulled at her lace once more. 

The padre lifted his eyebrows. 

“Do not all women weep?” he asked. 

“From time to time, but not for seven days.” 

“Why does she weep?” 

“Should I know? Ask Antonito.” 

“I ask you. Why should Violeta weep?” 

“Ask Violeta.” 

“I shall ask her. But do you not know more than 
you tell?” 

“I know nothing—you yourself have often said 
so.” 

“Then this is all your news: ‘Violeta weeps!’ ” 


ESPOSITO 


15 


“I might add, if I chose, ‘Margarita laughs.* ** 

“So you might, but it would not be news. Are 
you a poet, that you put facts in a scale to make 
them balance? Margarita is young and beautiful— 
and unmarried. Should she not laugh? Why do 
you say it, then?” 

Rosa, dropping her thread, put her forefinger 
down upon the padre’s knee. 

“Because there is an old saying: ‘When one woman 
weeps, and one woman laughs, there is arithmetic 
somewhere .* 99 

“You gossip,” said the padre testily. “Have I 
not warned you against old sayings?” 

“Do I squawk any that are older than the Book?” 
demanded Old Rosa. “Have I a blue face, that I 
should smile like the sky, and have I teeth as white 
as clouds, to grin with like your Antonito, when his 
wife weeps, and her foster sister laughs? Were they 
not your first orphans? Did I not rear them for 
you? Did not Violeta grow up to do her tasks, and 
did not Margarita choose to seek out her drab of an 
aunt in Barcelona, and take her beatings, and be¬ 
come a flower girl on the Long White Street, and 
run back here when she grew tired? Did not Violeta 
grow up so docile and so good that you thought her 
worthy enough—and beautiful, too—to marry your 
money-hired Antonito ? Did not Violeta, lying quiet 
in my naked arms, drink in the green and white com¬ 
plexion of my very face, and two times the size of 
my eyes from their sockets ? And did not Margarita, 
with all her soft and pretty skin, kick at her sister 
with her silky legs, and squeak like a little pink pig?” 

“Basta!” said the padre, “be polite! Here are 
strangers!” 


16 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


From the Barcelona road the dust was rising in 
many places, and Padre Pedro and Old Rosa wel¬ 
comed the first, come of the wayfarers. The padre 
gave them “health and wealth,” and, discovering 
them to be foreigners, fetched Antonito to show them 
how to drink the Spanish wine: lifting the bottle and 
taking what you will without a cup, yet without 
putting the bottle to the lips, and withal not losing 
a mere drop; and the travellers, laughing, thank¬ 
fully took Old Rosa’s proffered china mug, and 
drank from that, and journeyed on into Terassa. 

“Why should she weep?” asked the padre, as the 
two sat down again. 

“Why, indeed?” said Rosa. “I will say nothing. 
Have you not told me to be polite? I will ask ques¬ 
tions, like you. Is she not the most beautiful woman 
in the village? Is she not prosperous? Is she not 
admired? Did she not, from an orphan, come to be 
an envied girl, mothered by a sensible woman and 
fathered by a priest? Was she not asked in mar¬ 
riage by your paragon, the only boy in twenty 
towns with yellow hair? Is not her wedding day a 
year ago to-morrow, and is not to-morrow Terassa’s 
day of history? Why should she weep, indeed? 
Should you not ask her husband? Can any one 
else know? Why do you not beat him? When Vio- 
leta weeps, why do you not beat Antonito ?” 

“Beat Antonito?” Padre Pedro gazed at her with 
startled eyes. 

“Why not?” asked Rosa. “Did you not beat 
Jose, a boy of twelve years old, less than three 
months ago?” 

“I did,” said the padre, “and he was a beloved 
one of my thirty. Do you think I did not pray be- 


ESPOSITO 


17 


fore, and afterward? Do you not know his fault? 
Do you know that he broke Violeta’s yearling plum 
tree, with the one great purple plum on it? Did 
you know that he wantonly broke off the little 
branch?” The padre spoke with vehemence, and 
looked at her reproachfully. 

“Was her heart on the branch?” she asked, ris¬ 
ing. 

Again they gave wine to pilgrims from the road—- 
a merchant from Madrid, with a supercilious air, 
but with deprecatory manners; a group of peasants 
from Ruby, dressed out in scarlet, who drank Old 
Rosa’s wine as Antonito did; and a very old man 
who came afoot, albeit he owned a donkey, which he 
led on by a rope, and which, in turn, dragged for¬ 
ward a lowly cart, heavy and high-piled with canvas- 
covered merchandise. 

Courtesy and fair greetings met the merchant and 
the citizens of Ruby, but Padre Pedro, to this lean 
old man, showed a less hearty welcome, giving him 
only “health.” 

“If you are honest,” he said, standing before him 
in the roadway, “partake of the wine, and may you 
thrive in our festival. What have you brought to 
Terassa in your cart?” 

The old man bowed low before the padre. 

“Toys, my honoured one,” he said, in cracked and 
humiliated tones. “Toys, my padre, toys! And 
my booth, in which I do sleight of hand.” 

“Are you a magician?” demanded the padre. 

“That also,” said the old man, bowing again. 
“A magician of high rank, with testimonials from 
nobility and gentle folk. And I am honest. I sell 
toys, and my toys are as fine as German toys, and 


18 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


the fortunes I tell come true. I am very honest, 
padre, and I give for what I take.” 

“Then take the wine, and give praise to Virgen 
Maria,” said the padre, stepping aside. “Go choose 
your place in the square. But keep in mind that 
Terassa is a godly town, and try no kind of evil 
magic with your fortune tellings. I give my blessing 
to your toys; but if I find the devil in your cart, I 
will scourge you along with him out of town!” 

He patted the mule on its pink and gray nose, and 
the old man, wiping the red wine from his withered 
face, took up his rope again, and walked slowly on. 

The padre held out his hand to Rosa. 

“I will go to Violeta,” he said, “for you say she 
weeps. As for Margarita, let her laugh. Is she not 
a good girl?” 

“So far,” said Rosa grimly. 

“Chis, chis!” chided Padre Pedro. “Have a care, 
or I will buy you a satin gown, with a lace jacket!” 
And he crossed the road, and called Antonito to him 
from the poppy fields. 

“To-morrow is Festival Day, Antonito.” 

“Yes, padre.” 

“And your second wedding day, Antonito.” 

“Yes, padre.” 

“Let us thank God twice, then, you and me. De¬ 
serve your marriage, as Terassa does her festival. 
See that the children work happily, but hard—all 
the plants must be ready and conveyed to the market 
place before the resting hour, and the patterns laid 
out there in two hours after it. All this will leave 
two and a half for reseeding in the empty trenches. 
Then, Antonito—think! If the weather is kind, we 


ESPOSITO 


19 


will have one more crop before winter, even without 
our hothouse! And next year-” 

“Yes, padre.” 

“Well—work as hard as the sun allows. But re¬ 
member that Tito is very small. If he wanders, do 
not call him back. Be as good as you are good to 
look at.” 

“Yes, padre.” 

“So you own your good looks. Are you vain?” 

“No, padre.” 

“Jose is pulling up the pole, Antonito—run— 
run!” And, as Antonito gave chase to Jose, Padre 
Pedro walked toward Terassa along the burning 
road. 

As he neared Violeta’s garden around Antonito’s 
house, its several colours pressed gratefulness and 
beauty upon his senses; house and garden both were 
square; the habitation was not alone of stones, but of 
adobe, as well; and the generous space about it, 
walled from the hillside vineyard with broken gray 
rock, was spread over with sharp contrasts of shade 
and sun—its close-cut velvet green all covered with 
golden spots, and tall shapes marked out in ebony 
black, with here or there a mottled place, from a 
tree with spreading branches. There was no breeze, 
and the silhouette of Violeta lay as motionless on the 
step as the shadows on the grass. She stood bare- 
headed, and the light brought a blue lustre to her 
parted hair. Her eyes, which were known as far as 
Ruby to be one moment like the small wild violet, and 
the next as dark as those in Margarita’s hothouse, 
were gazing past the vineyard to the poppy fields. 

“Health!” said the padre cheerfully, coming up 



20 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


behind her. She started, for she had not heard him 
approach; she did not cry out; but, when he dropped 
the hand that, at her startlement, he had held up in 
calming benediction, she leaned against him rather 
weakly, and trembling, and, as though she could not, 
did not speak. 

“My child,” said the padre, lifting up her face 
and stroking her dark hair, “why have you been 
weeping? Your eyes are as clear and fair as the 
ocean one sees from Gibraltar, but they have also 
been as wet, and as salt. Have ships sunk in them? 
Have men been drowned? Is the Lost City about to 
rise? Then why have their depths been troubled?” 

She hid her face against his shoulder, and, after a 
moment, said in a low voice: “I am afraid!” 

“Afraid of what?” he asked gently. 

With a shuddering sigh, she breathed again: “I am 
afraid!” 

“We must fear nothing but the devil. Then are 
your thoughts pure ?” 

She looked up into his face. 

“Do you doubt that?” 

“Then do not say you are afraid. Say you are 
unhappy.” 

“I am unhappy.” 

Padre Pedro slipped his arm about her waist as 
tenderly as if he were a young man and her lover, 
and drew her with him through the quiet garden. 

“Are you not young, and well to do, and mar¬ 
ried?” 

“Yes, padre.” 

They paused at a corner of the wall, and he 
pointed across at the house. 

“Is it not a rare dwelling? Is masonry so cheap 


ESPOSITO 


21 


in little TerassaP Was not Antonito’s portion 
extraordinary for a youth, and have you not used 
wise hands in saving? Do I not stand this moment 
in the example of Terassa’s gardens? Are your 
sprouts and vineyards not envied, and are your ways 
not copied? Am I right?” 

“Yes, padre.” 

He led her steps beyond the wall into the vineyard, 
and along a narrow confine beaten by the sun. 

“See! Do not the grapes strike our faces? Is 
your head not hidden from the road, and would a 
passer-by know it was Padre Pedro rustling the 
leaves, save that his hat appears above them?” 

They came back toward the garden, and, leaning 
against the wall, he parted the thick foliage from 
over a heavy cluster, and poised the rich fruit in his 
palm. 

“See them, pale green, each with a red stain at 
the bottom! Has Ruby the like? Are they not pure 
Malaga ?” 

“Yes, padre.” 

“All these you have.” He drew her nearer to him 
and looked into her eyes. “You say ‘I am unhappy,’ 
and all these you have!” 

As he looked at her, a deep colour came over her 
cheeks, and she lowered her eyes. She slowly drew 
her hands from his, and turned her back. 

“I.am unhappy,” she repeated dully. 

A troubled look passed over the padre’s face, but 
when he spoke his voice was calm and even. 

“All these you have, and first of all, Antonito. 
He loves you, and he is a good husband.” 

“He is my husband,” she said. 

“And he loves you.” 


22 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


“He loves me? Antonito loves me?” Her great 
eyes searched his desperately. 

With his strong hands, the padre suddenly lifted 
her to the wall, and, climbing over it himself, swung 
her down into the garden; but she did not smile as 
once she would have done. Her eyes had darkened, 
and, as she flashed them upon him, a smouldering 
passion leaped up in their deepening purple and 
devastated her pure beauty. 

“What are they?” she cried, pointing at the 
vineyard, and the garden, and the house. “What is 
a vineyard? Could I not live without wine? What 
is a garden? Do I eat grass? What is a house? 
Could I not sleep under the stars?” 

The padre looked down on her sternly. 

“Daughter of mine,” he said, “thank God and 
Marfa for what you have. Forget your vineyard, if 
you will. Forget your portion, and your house. 
You have a husband!” 

She broke from him, and ran toward the step. 

“I have nothing!” she cried abandonedly, and 
threw herself forward on the turf, her white wrists 
denting the grass. 

“Esposito!” she moaned. “Esposito!” 

He lifted her up, but she broke away from him 
again, and ran into the house. 

As the padre plodded on toward the market 
square, a slight figure, walking very slowly, and 
stopping at each snakelike curve of the highway to 
lean over the wall at left or right, now peering into 
the Chasm Road, now over the sunlit valley, came 
gradually downward toward him. 

“She is no taller than my hand,” said Padre Pedro 


ESPOSITO 


23 


to himself. “Still, how tall she is grown! Yet she 
will not be tall. 5 * 

She was standing at the next curve, her elbows 
on the wall and her chin upon her hands, gazing 
toward Ruby as if her fortune lay there; but she 
came presently and met him. 

From her shoulders, falling over her linen dress 
and thrown back under her arms, hung a scarf of 
intricate white, with a black and silken fringe. There 
was no flower in her brown-black hair, but over her 
heart, like a ball of honey in a drift of snow, was a 
full-blown yellow rose; and surrounding her slim 
waist, like filigree disks of an artisan’s tracery, was 
a circle, held by black ribbon, of blossoms of the lace 
flower. It was Margarita. 

The padre smiled. 

“Health! My daughter! Are you a rich lady 
from Castile, that you carry your hands behind your 
back, or are they swollen and red from working?” 

Margarita laughed. She held them forth in front 
of him, and they were as white and smooth as mag¬ 
nolia blossoms. 

“They have made the best lace in the history of 
Terassa, and brought to air the biggest roses. When 
the festival is over, I can buy another greenhouse.” 

The padre looked at her thoughtfully. 

“I cannot call you lazy,” he said. “But I can call 
you—light. Shall you put everything behind you? 
Is it thrifty—and that on the day before the fes¬ 
tival—to put the best of your best lace on your 
back?” 

“The best,” said Margarita, tilting her head to 
one side, and laying one of the fair hands on the 
lace flowers at her waist, “is here, in front.” 


24 TERASSA OF SPAIN 

“I might,” said the padre slowly, “even call you 
bold.” 

“Why not?” asked Margarita, bowing low. “A 
priest should tell the truth!” 

“Basta!” said Padre Pedro severely. “You were 
bold, and you quibbled, too, for you did not make 
the lace flowers. They grow only in the chasm. 
They are what the English call Queen Anne’s lace, 
and the Americans wild carrot. I would have your 
character as fine-woven as this flower. I would have 
it fit your name, like Violeta’s. Do you know the 
meaning of your name? It is that of a jewel, as 
smooth as your finger, and as round and white.” 

Margarita laughed again. 

“You did not name me, like Violeta, after my 
eyes—I am not called ‘Piece of Coal.’ My name 
came to you with me, and is not your fault or mine. 
So because I bear it, should I sit still in an oyster?” 

“Would you call Terassa an oyster?” 

“It shuts its jaws on me like one.” 

“Will you make me angry?” cried the padre; but 
his harsh look did not terrify her, and, standing 
swiftly upon her toes, she clicked her fan open be¬ 
hind her head, and danced impudently past him with 
the sidewise opening steps of the tarantela. 

“Stop!” he called. “I will scold no more. Where 
are you going?” 

“I go to sing for Antonito, while he works.” 

“Do not. He will not work if you sing.” 

“Then I will show the littlest boys how to put in 
the seeds.” 

“I forbid you. They will work better alone.” 

“I will help Old Rosa with the last of her festival 
lace.” 


ESPOSITO 


25 


“Do that,” said the padre, and he went onward to 
the village. 

Margarita ran for a space, and then, smoothing 
her limpid shawl, went slowly, until she came be¬ 
tween the poppy fields and Old Rosa’s house. Rosa 
was nodding as though asleep, and Margarita 
crossed to the edge of the fields. 

“Antonito!” she called softly, and he came over to 
her, passing his sleeve across his brow. “Look at 
these flowers. It is near the resting hour—come 
with me to the chasm, and I will show you where to 
find them.” 

Antonito shook his head, smiling. 

“I may not,” he said. 

“They are lace flowers. They are what the stupid 
English call Queen Anne’s lace, and the crazy Amer¬ 
icans wild carrots. Come, and I will show you where 
to find some for Violeta.” 

Again Antonito shook his head. 

“Not for Violeta?” 

“I must not.” 

“Then I will give you these,” said Margarita, and 
she held them out to him one by one, so that when 
all were given, her hand had touched his fingers 
twenty times. 

At evening, the padre once more greeted Rosa. 

“So Margarita helped you with your lace to-day!” 

He spoke triumphantly, his hands upon his hips. 

Old Rosa duplicated his posture. 

“Shall a priest make jests?” she asked. “Mar¬ 
garita talked with Antonito, and wiped his pretty 
brow for him, and then went down the road, and 
made herself acquainted with the strangers as they 


26 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


came, and invited them to partake of my wine, and 
spent it for me as if it were her own, and wiped 
Antonito’s brow again, and went down the road for 
more strangers !” 

“Chis,” said the padre, “you well deserve your 
name!” 

He left Rosa, and with no more words walked 
across to the poppy fields, and beckoned Antonito to 
him. 

“Antonito, you are a prosperous and fortunate 
man.” 

“Yes, padre.” And for a time they were silent. 

“Antonio,” said the padre then, startling the 
youth with his almost forgotten formal name, “tell 
me the truth. Are you still, as of old, my Anto¬ 
nito ?” 

Antonito looked down at the ground. When he 
looked up again there was colour in his cheeks, and 
he said: 

“But, padre, am I not now a man?” 

Padre Pedro gazed at him searchingly. 

“Are you a good man, Antonio ?” 

“Yes—padre,” said Antonito, at last. But his 
eyes were lowered once more, and he did not meet 
the padre’s glance again. 

Together they drove the little boys home to sup¬ 
per, as the sun faded away on the eve of their first 
Wine Festival, and from the day when, softly as 
clouds from the Pyrenees, the Love Smoke drifted 
into beautiful Terassa. 

The festival had begun. A wide green, bordered 
with a deep pattern of flag-coloured poppies, reared 
and transplanted by the little boys as their tribute 


ESPOSITO 


27 


to the holiday, filled the village square from side to 
side, and from the market to the fonda. Flowers 
twisted among vine leaves spanned, in long ropes, the 
approach from the highway and the curving street 
that led to the Chasm Road, and exuberant festoons 
of intermingled grapes and olive branches hung loop¬ 
ing from house to house throughout the middle of 
the town. Poles stood up from the edges of the 
green, holding aloft wide ribbons, these, like the 
poppies, in red and yellow colours; and the tallest, 
rising before the veranda of the inn, upheld a tam¬ 
bourine, strung with coins, as a climbing prize. 

When the padre came into the square before the 
luncheon hour, it was vibrant with noise and with 
people, and already, considering the crowds of valu¬ 
able foreigners, Terassa had raised above her streets 
the midday canopies, to shield the unwary from 
God’s roundest yellow ball. In the centre of the 
farther side, as though struck off by a foot rule 
from the inn and the market, was the magician’s 
booth. Its arch of wood was painted like a theatre, 
and miniature boxes hung out from the sides, with 
dolls on china chairs within. Three marionettes, 
French Pierrot, and French Pierrette, and, in be¬ 
tween, a baboon, with the old man’s head bobbing, 
with glistening eyes, behind them, depended in the 
open space, to be played, for nothing, once an hour, 
by fine cords—not on clashing rods, as at Naples. 
Below where they dangled, the counter was piled high 
with many-hued, fanciful objects, while the top dis¬ 
played, in a flaring row, small flags of all the nations. 

Wine was drunk before the shops, where it was 
free, and as prodigally at the inn, where it was 
paid for. Musicians seated on the green threw 


28 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


forth dance melodies when those at the inn paused, 
and shouts and singing waved back around the hill. 
As the padre cast his eyes about the square, a cheer 
arose, mixed with laughter and applause. Antonito 
had slid down the pole, and stood at the base of it, 
beating the tambourine against his thighs. Mar¬ 
garita ran toward him from the crowd, clapping 
her hands, and the padre looked about for Violeta; 
but suddenly he was surrounded, as from out of the 
ground, and borne onward, almost off his feet, 
by a screaming, jumping throng—an army of thirty, 
up since faint daybreak, and clamouring for their 
silver coins. On they rushed around the square, his 
large black figure rising like some funeral decora¬ 
tion in their midst, till, in front of the festive booth, 
he was felled nearly to the ground. 

“Basta!” cried the padre, scrambling up. “Would 
you scatter the coins? Be gentle! Here they are.” 

As the day wore on, even the distant mountain had 
thrown off its misty draperies, and rose as blue as 
a bird against the far horizon. All duties had 
ceased in Terassa save the padre’s. He went all about 
—everywhere—as on another day, with cheerful 
words to the old, and marked this occasion by carry¬ 
ing garlands to the sick or feeble who could not join 
the merrymaking. His heart swelled with pride in 
his village. The yellow-green vineyards, far and 
near, were dotted by the dark costumes of foreign 
merchants, who walked through them, studying, 
admiring; and ever from the square came laughter, 
the clink of tambourines, singing. 

But as he repassed the inn in the waning of the 
languid heat toward the sundown, a slight shadow 


ESPOSITO 


29 


passed into his happy looks, and a cloud, intangible 
as an imagined wrong, came upon his spirit. 

He had paused to greet Juanita, who was sitting 
with a stranger at a table before the inn. She was 
a pretty child, as black as the ace of spades, and 
forever dressed out as red as the queen of hearts, 
as essential of her country as her common name, or 
the flag itself. Indeed, she fluttered and flaunted as 
if always in a high wind of her own, and was one of 
his favourites, for all her intertwisted goodness and 
badness. He thought no evil of her companioning 
with an unknown friend, nor of the two great bottles 
on their table; nor at first, for that matter, of her 
boisterous laughter; but as he stood by the railing, 
with his affectionate smile and a gay word at his 
lips, she looked at him, and she did not speak to 
him. 

The padre stared. She looked away again, and 
the two continued laughing—foolishly, hysterically, 
as though at a booby show. A chill, unexperienced, 
inexplicable, clutched like an unseen hand upon his 
heart. Juanita did not know him . And in his dazed 
confusion he walked away. 

He trod slowly, and some one who could go no 
faster was keeping pace with him. 

“Do you not know me?” asked Old Rosa tartly. 

The padre blushed at his neglectfulness, but his 
tongue did not desert him. 

“In such a gown?” he asked. “I thought you 
were a young girl, and a stranger. You have re¬ 
vived all the glories of Castile to prevent my pur¬ 
chasing that satin gown and to keep your sharp 
tongue to boot.” 

“A sharp tongue is better than a thick one!” 


30 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


snapped Rosa, pointing back at the laughing 
Juanita; and she added, looking narrowly at the 
troubled priest: “Is your fine festival a wise one, 
after all?” 

At the accusation, the padre’s face cleared as 
though by magic. 

“Chis!” he said. “Let her be merry. There is a 

French saying: ‘Evil to him who-’ But never 

mind. You were born cross.” 

And the padre hastened from her reply, and 
through the crowds to the square. 

What had there been m Juanita's laugh? It 
sounded in his ears again, as if it had come after 
him unaltered among the buzzing voices of the 
throng. In troubled reverie, he threaded his way 
slowly about till he found himself standing once 
more by the magician’s booth. It was closed. It 
had been set up in front of a shop which the old 
man had hired, and in which he lodged. He must 
be at some business within, for the booth’s rolling 
curtain had been pulled down to shut away his mer¬ 
chandise. The shop door opened and swung to, and 
a familiar figure ran impetuously into the street. 

“Whither, and why so fast?” cried the padre, 
catching her. 

Margarita struggled in his grasp like a thwarted 
child. 

“Will you scold again?” she demanded. “Will you 
always tease?” 

“Chis! Be a polite child. There is something 
wrong with your eyes. What have you hidden in 
your gown?” 

“My hand. Is that wrong?” And she unclasped 
her palm. 



ESPOSITO 


31 


“What were you doing in the shop?” 

“I had my fortune told.” 

The padre released her. 

“And what did the wizard promise you ?” 

She laughed, her eyes sparkling. 

“I shall have my lover.” 

“And who is that?” 

“The one I love.” 

“And who may that be? A king? A prince? An 
American ?” 

Her looks darkened, and, lifting her head high, she 
stamped her foot. 

“Will you make sport of me till the day I die? Is 
love a joking matter? Ne-vaire!” 

The padre smiled at her proud anger. 

“Would you frighten me with one foreign word?” 

“Sport, and more sport!” she cried, clutching the 
rose at her waist. “Can I not pronounce the 
English? fi Gooth mornick. Suth pretty ice! Gooth 
nighV Can I not pronounce it?” 

The padre laughed, and she stamped her foot 
again in her vexation. 

“Did I not live for a year in Barcelona to see the 
world, and sell my flowers in the street like a pauper, 
that I might talk to foreigners ? Did I not serve my 
aunt, and take her beatings?” 

The padre’s smile faded as her anger grew real in 
her eyes and voice. 

“Then should I live in little Terassa and have no 
pleasure? Shall the holy church condemn an orphan 
to sadness and poor clothes while she pays her keep ? 
Till she is a debtor to the church, or to the vine¬ 
yard, or to the storekeepers of bread and fish, shall 
she not work as she choose, and dance as she choose? 


32 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


Till she is a debtor to the Virgin, shall she not love 
as she choose?” 

And, with a quick whirl of her skirts, she was gone 
from him, and running across the green, her pretty 
fingers, fiercely clenched, hanging like hard pink 
rosebuds from her swinging arms. 

Half dazed, the padre passed over the narrow 
street, and stood among the people. A breeze from 
the valley rustled up through the long vineyards, 
seeming to bear the sound to him again; and once 
more, from the street beyond the fishmonger’s. Yes, 
it was real; and abruptly, over against the corner 
of the lace makers’, a man’s face and a woman’s, each 
with two shining eyes, brought the cold hand again 
upon his heart. 

"What has come into Terassa?” he whispered, 
his lips moving, to himself. 

There was a stir in the crowd around him. The 
unwearying players had burst into a cadence that 
throbbed back across his mind from Violeta’s wed¬ 
ding day—the Valverde dance. Eager heads craned 
forward toward the evening gold of the tripping 
green, and the padre gazed with the others. A patter 
of anticipatory clapping ran around the edges of 
the square, and foreign voices rose here and there 
in the quiet that had fallen. 

“Look at her!” said one. And “Look at him!” 
another. 

Antonito and Margarita were dancing the taran- 
tela. 

It is a beautiful dance, as even a foreigner could 
see, and Antonito was as graceful and scintillant as 
a silver ball in the hands of a juggler. He used his 
coin-strung tambourine, smarting it against knee 


ESPOSITO 


33 


and thigh and elbow; and Margarita, blowing for¬ 
ward and backward as light as a dandelion-down in 
a puff of air, struck her hands together, when they 
were not knuckled on her hips or clasped behind her 
neck, like cymbals, and, pirouetting toward him as 
the music reached its height, she caught the gleam¬ 
ing trophy on her head. 

But the padre’s eyes had drawn away to the out¬ 
skirts of the crowd, to fall upon a desolate, slim 
figure. Watching, unnoticed, lonesome as a violet in 
autumn, Antonito’s wife was standing in the square. 

A rush of strange feeling swept the hand of ice 
away from his heart, and suddenly the padre did 
an unheard-of thing. Going quickly up to her, he 
swept off his hat, and addressed her banteringly: 

“What! You, who danced like a cobweb in a tree 
—you are not on the green? Is your wedding day 
twenty years ago? Come—we will outdo them! We 
may be old, but we are spry!” 

And Terassa and her guests saw the padre and 
Yioleta dance the tarantela. 

ITis long black frock thrown by, his hat for a 
tambourine, and the lithe girl reaching and clapping 
her hands, or weaving them in the dark mass of her 
helplessly fallen hair, they danced at cross sides to 
Antonito and his gypsy. He felt as agile, as full 
of giddy strength, as when he had been a youth in 
Barcelona; and Yioleta, dancing opposite him, wore 
all the flushing loveliness of her spirited virgin days. 
Her undulant figure, lined out in her blue, ungaudy 
dress, waved toward him and away. Her eyes shone 
with excited brilliance through strands of her loos¬ 
ened hair, and her pale cheeks flared from their pallid 
white to the colour of bought rouge, and back to 


34 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


white flame again. He did not take his eyes away 
from her face. 

Violeta, then Margarita, bore the tambourine; 
Antonito, then the padre, crushed the hard substance 
of the stiff black hat. Voices swept round them 
in sympathetic laughter and hushed cheers. As the 
music, crashing, vibrated into silence, the padre 
tossed Violeta to his shoulder, and then all the world 
seemed to be passing by. A shouting mob, foreign¬ 
ers and townsfolk alike, had swept them up, and 
were bearing them, on a wooden bench, through the 
streets to the top of Terassa’s hill. 

As Antonito, panting, filled with astonishment and 
the tingling vigour of the dance, stared after the 
tumultuous sight, Margarita clashed the tambourine 
before his face. 

“It is mine now!” she taunted. “You shall not 
have it again!” 

Ringing it in the air, she dashed across the green, 
with Antonito laughing at her heels, and darted into 
the alley at the side of the fonda. Stopping there, 
she held it behind her back, and faced him impu¬ 
dently. 

“It is mine;” said Antonito. “Give it to me.” 

“Will you go to the chasm with me and pick lace 
flowers? You were unkind to me yesterday. Will 
you go now?” 

“And miss the dancing?” 

“There will be dancing till midnight. I will dance 
the tarantela with you then. Will I keep the tam¬ 
bourine, or will you do what I tell you?” 

“I will do what you tell me.” 

“So! Here it is. Now, close your eyes, and smell 


ESPOSITO 


35 


this perfume. Throw back your head, and smell— 
deep. So!” 

Lifting her hands, she snapped her fingers under¬ 
neath his nostrils, and a vapour like night mist 
floated up from them. Sightless, obedient, Antonito 
breathed it in. His brain throbbed. The whole 
world seemed full of marching feet, and small hands, 
upraised, bearing Violeta and the padre far away 
from the village green. Unclosing his eyes, he could 
see, as in a great moonlit space, nothing but Marga¬ 
rita’s face, close to his. Violeta, from the hilltop, 
saw them as they ran, jerking their long shadows 
behind them in the sunset, down through the Chasm 
Road. 

While dusk settled into darkness, Padre Pedro sat 
motionless in the worn portico of the church. . From 
confusion, anxiety, the thrill of abandonment, and 
the return to formulated habit, his mind had con¬ 
ceived, rejected, reembraced one question: “Did I 
do wrong?” With the slow deepening of shadows, 
the answer more and more refined itself before his 
inner vision, and with the full coming of night he 
answered, with the great sigh of a burden shifted: 
“No!” 

But there are sorrows poniarded as conscience, 
and questions not of his own making spelled them¬ 
selves out to him, clear as printed letters across the 
blackened sky. “What was there in Juanita’s 
laugh?” And Old Rosa: “Is your fine festival a 
wise one, after all?” And Margarita: “Till I am a 
debtor to the Virgin, shall I not love as I choose?” 
Why had she asked that, flinging the words out like 
a reply to a charge of felony? What had come into 


36 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


Terassa, after all these years? Why was she piled 
with defiance as she ran from the magician’s shop? 
What had she hidden in her dress and lied about? 
As suddenly as he had turned and carried Violeta 
into the dance, the padre sprang to his feet and 
.started from the church to the magician’s booth. 

The rolling shade was still shut down, and he 
rapped at the door of the silent shop. Inside, the 
old man was eating a stale supper made of bread 
and russet onions. Discovering his visitor, he was 
ill at ease; but the padre gave him “Health!” with 
an unafFrighting smile, and in more confidence the 
old man set him forth a chair. 

“I bespeak your best offices,” said the padre. 
“To-day has brought thirty silver pieces from my 
pocket to your counter.” 

“I have not been ungrateful,” said the old magi¬ 
cian, with an ill-toothed grin. “Thirty pieces of 
silver once bought more than toys.” 

Padre Pedro raised his hand with quick authority. 

“Tend your tongue!” he said. “Your jest is no 
sweeter than your lips. I would have you tell my 
fortune.” 

The magician shot a penetrating look at the 
padre’s face. It was bland and simple, yet with what 
would seem a twinkle in the eyes. 

“So!” said the old man. “It shall be.” 

And, placing the cards aside upon the supper 
table, he took the padre’s two hands in his bony 
clutch, and turned their palms upright. 

“You are a priest,” he began, in his high, broken 
voice, “of the true church and-” 

“Wonderful!” ejaculated the padre. 



ESPOSITO 37 

A pink flush of anger overspread the meagre face 
of the wizened fortune teller. 

“And you rule your townsfolk with bounty and 
virtue. They fear you, for you are a learned man. 
They obey you, for they know you are a wise priest. 
They love you, because you are a good-” 

“Basta!” said the padre, taking his hands away. 
“Can I not hear for nothing that I am bountiful and 
virtuous, learned and wise and good? And I knew 
that I was a priest thirty years before you found it 
out. We will have done with my fortune. But’*— 
and he looked searchingly at the bad old man—“have 
you, perchance, a love potion ?” 

There was silence between them, each with keen¬ 
ness studying the other’s face. 

Deceit and defiance mingled in the old man’s slow 
reply. 

“No,” he said. “I speak it, and I have told you 
I am honest. I have no love potion.” 

The padre did not contradict him. Instead, he 
sighed, and stood up, and made toward the door. 

“I am disappointed,” he said. “I would have 
paid you well.” 

The old man laid a hand upon his arm. 

“Wait!” he cried hastily. “I told the truth. 
But-” And again they watched each other. 

Gradually the padre’s mouth stretched out into a 
smile. The smile became a laugh, and above it rose 
a thin cackle from the shrivelled one before him. 

“So!” trembled the old voice. “So, so! A mer¬ 
chant must be cautious. And with priests, twice 
cautious. And I told the truth, my father. I have 
no potion, but I have a smoke . It is pure magic. 
No one has the like, not in Ruby, not in all Barce- 




38 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


Iona—no, perhaps not in Madrid, or in Mexico. 
You shall see!” 

And he reached open a cupboard, and brought 
forth something closed within his hand. 

“What is the price?” asked the padre. 

The magician looked at him swiftly. 

“Two pesetas.” 

“It is a large price,” said Padre Pedro, and re¬ 
seated himself. 

“It is small,” said the old man; “but I will be 
generous. I have not forgotten the thirty bits of 
silver. I may make the jest now, may I not? You 
shall test a powder at my cost. Close your eyes, 
and do as I bid you.” 

“Slowly—slowly!” said the padre. “First, what 
are its properties?” 

“Magic,” said the necromancer shortly. “Need 
you know more?” 

“What do you promise for it?” 

“What did you promise yourself when you asked 
for a love potion?” 

“To achieve my object.” 

“That is what I promise for the love smoke.” 

“Cease playing with my words,” commanded the 
padre, “and come to business. I am a strong man.” 

“Then I will hasten while I am whole,” said the 
magician, “for I am seldom honoured by the church. 
It is a powerful charm, as you will see, and of honest 
magic—like the smell of roses, without the vulgarity 
of going, like wine, into the stomach. Close your 
eyes. Think of beautiful things. Breathe. You will 
smell new perfumes. You will see suns and moons and 
planets never printed in the almanac. You will see 
flowers, falling from them, rush by like the wind, and 


ESPOSITO 


39 


yellow comets swimming about like fish in a green 
sky, and whom you most love dancing like a star 
between your hands! And, clasping your hands to¬ 
gether, you will laugh—laugh! Close your eyes— 
think of whom you love. So !” 

The padre, trembling, breathed the love smoke in. 
His brain seethed with dazzling colours, and the 
magnitude of great spaces, while the snapping of the 
wafer echoed a myriad times in his numb ears with 
a musical, rhythmic noise, and its salt smell seeped 
away in small waves of disseminating odour like the 
rare waters of Cologne; but the padre did not laugh, 
for, as the old man bade, he had fixed his thought on 
Whom he loved. 

Yet majesty takes fear to bed in the bottom of 
an old brain, and the lines of his face were hardened, 
and sweat stood in a row of glittering beads around 
his brow as the love smoke cleared from his soul. 

At last he said: 

“I will buy it. How many have you sold?” 

“Two times seven—twice a holy number.” 

“To men or women?” 

“Mostly to men—all but one.” 

“I ask you, what is her name?” 

“I know not. But there is none like her. Small, 
black—ah, she could be a patrician!” 

“And she paid so much—two pesetas?” 

“I asked her no money.” 

“Do not tell me lies!” said the padre. 

“It is the truth,” returned the old man; and he 
added, with his leering smile: “I would not take it.” 

“She is a good girl,” said the padre, with set lips. 

“Yes,” said the old man; “she is virtuous, but 
she is as guilty of knowledge as the nose of a dog.” 


40 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


“Give me the wafer,” cried the padre, “and listen 
to what I say. How many have you left?” 

“Why should I account to you? I have many.” 

“Do you know that I can confiscate such goods?” 

The evil lips curled back from the old man’s teeth. 

“And go to jail in Barcelona?” he sneered. “Here 
is my bill of trade.” And he drew a tattered paper 
from his shirt. 

The padre laughed, as if in great good humour, 
as he handed it back to him. 

“I see I cannot cheat you. Let us bargain, then. 
I am not rich, but I have ready money. I would buy 
them all. How many powders have you, and what 
will you take off to sell the whole?’ 

The magician’s eyes were gleaming greedily. 

“Nothing,” he said. “I have two hundred, and I 
can sell all before the seven days are out. Besides, 
selling to you I lose trade—one out of two means 
perfume, or ribbons, or rings of paste. Therefore, 
to you I increase the price. For the two hundred, 
five hundred. I have said it.” 

The padre drew his breath, and grew a little pale. 

“It is a large sum. What would you do with 
it—obtain more of your wafers?” 

“No,” grinned the old man; “I would buy me a 
wife. My booth makes me a fair living, and with so 
much ready money I could content a young wife for 
a year—one who could dance, and bring trade to 
the booth. WThat do you answer me?” 

The padre sighed deeply. 

“Four hundred and fifty,” he said. 

“It is well,” said the magician; and the padre rose. 

“I will come with the money before midnight. It 
is true that you have no more?” 


ESPOSITO 


41 


“It is true, my father.” 

“Count carefully. If there are some over, do not 
withhold them. For such I will pay double.” 

The old man laughed his cackling laugh again. 

“I am not ungrateful, padre. I will keep your 
secret, and I will tell you one: There is one wafer 
laid aside, and you may not have it. Your little 
senorita comes for it to-night. Two are stronger 
than one—I told her so. You came in the crotch 
of time, padre. I will keep my promise to her, lest 
she scratch my eyes out. But I will not take her 
kisses. I am honest, padre.” 

Shaking him roughly off, the padre went with a 
white face through the torch-lit, seething square, 
looking neither to the right nor to the left, and 
down the highway toward Antonito’s home. 

“Antonito!” he called as he turned into the 
garden. 

There was no answer, and before he could call 
again a dark figure rushed from the house and flung 
itself against him like a whirlwind, clutching his 
gown with tense fingers. 

“He is not here!” cried Violeta, but with a voice 
not Violeta’s—hoarse and thick. “Has he gone with 
her to the chasm? If she took him from me I would 
throw stones at her! I would throw stones—do you 
hear? To what end have I prayed? Does the Vir¬ 
gin hear? Or does she hear and mock? If I saw 
her, I would throw stones! If I saw her shadow in 
the Chasm Road, I would throw stones at her 
shadow!” 

Padre Pedro put her at arm’s length, and when 
his words came they fell harshly from his lips. 

“At whose shadow?” he demanded. 


42 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


Violeta did not answer. There were footfalls on 
the road, and she sprang past him with an inarticu¬ 
late cry, and flung her arms around her husband’s 
neck. 

“Antonito,” said the padre quietly, “your wife 
has been anxious. Have you neglected her? I am 
glad you have come. She will rest now. Violeta, I 
have need of Antonito. Go into the house. Be a 
good child, and sleep. I have arithmetic to do— 
money counting, indeed—and he must help me. Alas, 
I understand something of several languages, yet 
must call aid for the counting of my riches! Poor 
daughter! You are weary, and I bid you sleep. 
Your Tono will be safe with me!” 

Violeta, with no word, went heavily to the house, 
and the padre drew her husband along the highway. 

When they had gone some paces, Antonito halted. 

“Padre,” he said hesitatingly; “padre.” 

“Yes, Antonito?” 

“Would you have me work to-night, padre? Is it 
not the festival—and the first day—the first night?” 

“It is, Antonito. But have you not danced 
enough? Would I call you on a trivial errand? 
Would you not help me?” 

“I would help you, padre. But—I would dance 
the last dance—at midnight.” 

“We will finish before midnight,” said the padre; 
and they went on to the crux of the highway, to the 
Chasm Road, to the padre’s house. 

Entering the house, the padre from a closet deep 
and heavy-doored fetched out a great carven box, 
and set it down before him on a table. With Anto¬ 
nito seated opposite him, he turned its lock with a 
hefty iron key, and lifted back its lid. Inside were 


ESPOSITO 


43 


gold, stacked neatly at the centre, and silver and 
copper shut separately off in compartments. He 
lifted out the gold, and pushed it across the table. 

“Do you know what this is, Antonito ?” 

“It is the money earned by the little boys,” Anto¬ 
nito answered. 

“Exactly,” said the padre, a tinge of bitterness 
in his voice. “All that they have earned, without 
deducting what has been spent. Still, it is mostly 
profit, and nearly all, profit or not, must be used— 
and not for a greenhouse, or fine tools, or California 
seeds. We must count out four hundred and fifty 
pesetas, and put all that is left in a bag by itself 
against extra need.” 

“What is it for?” asked Antonito, mystified. 

“You will learn in fair time, Antonito. Mean¬ 
while, I will ask you questions as we count. We 
will turn back twenty years, and you will answer as 
if you were yourself a little boy again, and were at 
a lesson. Antonito, what is there in Terassa?” 

Antonito tried to smile; yet, gentle as the padre’s 
tone had been, he could not. 

“People,” he said uneasily. 

“Right,” said the padre. “And what else?” 

“Vineyards.” 

“True. And?” 

“And—and—a church.” 

“The church,” said the padre, with simple empha¬ 
sis. “Is there nothing more?” 

“I—I cannot think.” 

“There is one thing more worth mentioning. 
Shall I tell you what it is ?” 

“Yes—padre,” said Antonito, trembling he knew 
not why. 


44 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


“The devil,” the padre said quietly, and continued 
counting the money. 

Antonito turned very pale, and his hands grew 
idle. 

“And him we are to buy,” the padre went on 
calmly. “I can feel your heart bleed, Antonito, to 
learn that we must spend this money for wickedness. 
It will be three more years now before the little boys 
can have their greenhouse. It is very sad to learn 
that they must pay for what they have not done. 
If you ever have a child, Antonito, see that he does 
not have to pay.” 

There was silence between them save for the clink¬ 
ing of the padre’s coins. He held a palmful out 
across the table. 

“Here, for instance, is what Jose has earned. Jose 
has been unruly, but when he does work he earns in 
great proportion. And these coppers stand for 
Tito. He is very small, but he has worked a little. 
Are you alarmed, you, a grown man, Antonio, to 
learn that the devil is in Terassa? Rest easy, for 
we will buy him off. He came yesterday morning, 
leading a good mule and a pretty cart. And he has 
sold black magic, concealed in white wafers, through 
the town. But I have found him out, Antonio. Let 
us thank God for that—else what might not have 
happened? Let me tell you, it is a serious matter. 
One of Terassa’s daughters fell into his claws, and 
gave him fair looks for his sooty magic. Behold, 
she broke the wafer underneath a good man’s nose, 
and he drank in the poison as Adam swallowed the 
fruit. He saw strange things; he knew strange 
thoughts; he felt unwonted desires.” 


ESPOSITO 


45 


“Did you see this?” asked Antonito, in a low, 
whispering voice. 

“With my mind’s eye, Antonio,” said the padre, 
rapping down another coin. “Is it not well that it 
was given me to know ? Consider it, Antonio: Sup¬ 
pose some Adam had bought the magic stuff and 
given it to Violet a!” 

Antonito sprang from his chair with a hoarse, 
half-smothered cry. 

“Quite right, Antonio. You are right to feel so. 
But be quiet, and do not fear. Your wife would 
know the devil if he came in an Easter egg. And 
now,” he added, scraping the calculated money into 
a large canvas bag, and holding out a small one for 
the rest, “we will go to the magician, and buy up 
his vapour. Your feelings are too sensitive, Antonio 
—I have done all the counting!” 

Besides the beauty of her daughters and the man¬ 
hood of her sons and the faith of her old folk, there 
were few things priceless in Terassa; of these few, 
most treasured was a brazen censer, designed with 
precious stones, which had long ago been given into 
her church as a votive offering by a devout widow 
from Castile. Sending Antonio before with the 
moneybags, Padre Pedro bade him wait his coming 
in the square. 

“Tell all you know that something will transpire 
on the green,” he said, and left him. 

He went into the church, and came forth again 
carrying the censer. Then he went straight to the 
magician’s shop, and, entering, demanded: 

“How many did you find in all?’ ’ 


46 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


“Two hundred and two,” said the old man, and 
held them out in a parcel. 

“You are truthful? As you value your shrunken 
bones?” 

“As I value my profit!” snarled the necromancer. 
“Where is your money?” 

“It is waiting on the green. Hold your package 
till you have it, if you choose. Follow me.” 

The old man’s gleaming eyes travelled, full of sus¬ 
picion, from where they feasted on the glittering 
censer to the padre’s face; but, tightly clutching his 
packet, he followed him. 

In the square without there was a restless hush. 
It was late. The gay music had flagged, the dancing 
had grown listless, and upon Antonito’s message the 
diminished crowd had broken into groups. Those 
upon the green were mainly townsfolk, who talked 
in mysterious suggestions of a catastrophe, or a 
miracle; and most of the foreigners, in respect, stood 
farther off, or were gone away. Antonito had 
posted himself at the corner of the lace makers’, and 
lingered there, holding the moneybags, alone. He 
was deferred to as the padre’s intimate, and no 
words were said to him. Even Margarita, though 
she watched him with unswerving eyes, did not ap¬ 
proach too near. 

He saw the two dark figures step from the shop, 
and followed them as the padre, making their way 
among the villagers, walked to the centre of the 
green. A murmur and a thrill both of fear and of 
excited anticipation ran through them as the star¬ 
light flashed on the sacred vessel in his hand, and 
identified his bent companion. Some faces that looked 
on grew very white. 


ESPOSITO 


47 


The padre halted, and raised up his arm. 

“My people,” he said, his voice trembling a little, 
but growing steady and clear with the strength of 
the words it spoke, “come close. I bid you listen, 
and watch, and remember. There has been black 
magic in Terassa. It was brought here by this old 
man whom you see, and with some of you—some 
who stand before me now, or who have gone their 
ways to the paradise of fools—he has waged his 
devil’s commerce. You see these bags? They hold 
but a few pesetas over the price of his remaining 
devil’s ware, and the money in them belongs to Tito, 
and Bernardo, and Guillermo, and Jose—money 
earned in the brown earth by the sixty hands of my 
thirty little boys. The old man takes the money, he 
has said, to buy himself a wife. I thank God no good 
woman would be bought by him—him who would 
spread dishonour throughout an honest place. If I 
were so powered, I would seize his goods and drive 
him from among us; but, alas, he is armed with a 
license, like a whelp in a large town, lest a citizen be 
bitten without a fee having accrued to the law! So 
I have brought him here that Terassa may see me 
pay her debt. He owes me two hundred wafers and 
two. Count to yourselves as he pays them out, and 
watch that I give him again four hundred and fifty 
pesetas and nine. And you, Antonito, while we 
count, run to the kitchen of the inn, and bring me 
back a pan of living coals.” 

At his words, a gasp came from the silent, awe¬ 
struck crowd, and the old man, with a gulp of ter¬ 
ror, looked up into the padre’s face, and then behind 
him at the people, as though for some path of escape; 


48 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


but withal his hand was clutched tight upon his 
goods as Antonito went wonderingly away. 

“Fear not,” said the padre. “The coals are not 
for you. Count out your wafers.” 

Unfastening the packet with quivering fingers, the 
magician dumbly obeyed; and when all were told, the 
padre emptied the coins from the large bag into his 
lap, and saw him number them eagerly in again. 
Then, as the priest figured the sum of nine pesetas 
from the smaller sack, Antonito pushed through the 
crowd with a pan of crackling coals, and set it be¬ 
side him. The whole square was hushed. Breaking 
through the stillness, a sob came from somewhere 
among the people, and from somewhere else another. 
Then all was quiet once more, and the padre’s voice 
was heard again: 

“The old man has his money now. Terassa saw 
me give it; but her debt is not all paid. My chil¬ 
dren, he came among us to sell us what cannot be 
sold. God’s first gift in life to us is love. Love is 
His last comment on our deeds. From Him we have 
it for the asking. Shall we, then, buy and sell and 
barter it among ourselves? What kind of love can 
man find in a wafer? Only one kind , and that the 
pauper freely gets within the church. Outside her 
doors, what magic is there that can have to do with 
it? No more than that which lights a woman’s eyes, 
or sits in the strong sinews of an honest man. Now 
you may watch me—I will say no more.” 

Stooping, he set the jewelled censer on the ground. 
He emptied the pink coals within, and on them the 
white wafers—a handful, and another, and another. 
The magician, standing by with frightened face, 
stepped back, a low cry coming from his lips. In 


ESPOSITO 


49 


the deep silence, a cracking as of pine cones snapped 
and sputtered, and a green flame issued from the 
sacred cup. Leaping, wavering, leaping higher, it 
cast a wan light on the staring faces, and threw 
black moving shadows on the ground, and a great 
shifting grotesque of the padre back of him along 
the grass and against the illumined foliage of a tow¬ 
ering tree. 

“It is a miracle,” whispered a woman, sobbing, to 
a woman next her. 

And even as she spoke, the flame in the censer was 
dimmed, and a small, dense cloud of pungent smoke 
rose out of it, curling upward, spreading in the air, 
thickening and distorting the shadows, floating 
among the people. Some turned away their heads; 
some gazed in fascination, drinking the salt, sweet, 
numbing odour in; some murmured, with still voices: 
“It is a miracle!” 

An infidel might not have despised them. Sud¬ 
denly the padre’s huge black shadow fled forward, 
and reappeared against the brilliant tree, uphold¬ 
ing something in its giant hands. Stepping before 
the flaring cup, he had seized the old magician by the 
waist, and lifting him as he would a child for bap¬ 
tism, set him down behind the cup, where all might 
see. Pinioning him with one hand by the neck, he 
held him in the love smoke. 

One cry of horrid terror came from the old man’s 
throat, and then the people of Terassa saw him 
squirming in the green-hued vapour, struggling not 
to breathe. But the padre mercilessly held him there, 
and breathe he must, or die; and thus what he had 
been paid for became his again, seeping into his nos¬ 
trils, into his lungs, into his brain. As the flame 


50 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


sank, and the love smoke cleared away, the padre 
flung him headlong toward the crowd, and he fell 
prostrate, face downward, to the ground. 

No one ventured toward the stricken figure, and 
he lay huddled, motionless, as though dead; but pres¬ 
ently he stirred and lifted his bony head and shud¬ 
dered to his feet. With a thin, shaking hand at his 
lips, he peered dazedly around, and as his eyes came 
upon the padre and the burned-out chalice at his 
feet, he threw up both arms across his face, and ran, 
squealing, away, like a baby with an old man’s voice. 

The love smoke, diaphanous and distant in the 
starlight, had drifted out over the valley, and the 
people, hushed and marvelling, went as silently away. 
Margarita had vanished. Antonito and the padre 
were alone on the dancing green. 

As he leaned to pick the tarnished censer from the 
grass, the padre heard a stifled sound behind him. 
Turning, he saw Antonito crouched down on the 
turf, his head bent upon his arms. 

“Esposita!” he was moaning. “Esposita !” 

He gently touched his shoulder. 

“Go to her,” he said softly. 

But Antonito, struggling to his feet, seized him in 
a convulsive grasp. 

“Padre!” he cried out wildly. “Padre, I have 
sinned! I confess it. I will confess to you!” 

The padre, holding him at arm’s length, gazed 
long into the green eyes that stared at him from the 
pale, unhappy face. 

“There is nothing to confess, Antonito mio” he 
said, at last. “I know as much as you yourself could 
tell me. We have lived, and we have learned, and 


ESPOSITO 


51 


paid. To pay, I took the children’s money. To 
learn, I had taken—the love smoke.” 

Antonito’s green eyes were fastened on his face. 
They seemed to look him through and through, as 
when, years long ago, he had asked him childish 
questions. 

“Go to her,” said the padre again, huskily. But 
they heard their names called, and some one running 
toward them. 

“Padre! Antonito !” It was Old Rosa, and her 
face was very frightened. “Violeta!” she cried, 
panting up to them. “Violeta!” 

“What? What?” Antonito and the padre de¬ 
manded it together. 

“She has run away into the chasm in her wed¬ 
ding dress! I saw her from the top of the hill.” 

Like the stinging cut of a whip, her words at the 
pilgrims’ box—her first words to him on her mar¬ 
riage day—smote on Antonito’s mind: “In this 
place, if our marriage be blighted, I would die!” 

“Come!” he gasped, and dashed out of the square. 

The padre seized Old Rosa’s arm, and pointed to 
the blackened censer on the ground. 

“Guard it,” he said, and ran after Antonito. 

Rosa, from the hilltop, holding the burned vessel 
in her hands, watched them disappear into the night 
mist of the chasm. 

“Not so fast, my son,” the padre said once. “We 
may go by her.” 

“We will find her at the pilgrims’ box,” Antonito 
answered, “and we will find her dead.” 

And they ran on and on swiftly, with no sound 
save that of their thudding feet. 

They found her, indeed, at the shrine of the 


52 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


wooden Virgin. It was near the hour of dawn, and 
through the disseminating mist they descried the 
greater whiteness of her gown. Her cheek was laid 
against the skirt of the image, and her arms were 
around it, motionless. But as they sprang up the 
steep embankment she raised her head, and then, as 
if bewildered, rose to her feet. 

Their voices too dry, their hearts too wild, for cry¬ 
ing out, they rushed toward her; but as the strug¬ 
gling starlight fell on the face she turned upon them, 
they stopped, and stood together, marvelling. Her 
eyes were full of a light as soft as that of the stars, 
and she looked at them as with the countenance of 
one transfigured. 

“Were you frightened?” she asked. “Is it so 
late? I thought you would still be dancing.” 

“Esposita!” cried Antonito, and came a step 
nearer, stretching out his arms. “Esposita!” And 
could say no more. 

She looked at him, and from him to the padre, as 
though doubting to which she should speak on, and 
a glow of pink swept up her face to her temples. 

“Esposito,” she said at last, placing one hand on 
his golden hair and one on the wooden image of 
Maria, “do you remember how you chided me here 
on our marriage day? You were right, for it is as 
the padre said: ‘Here life begins!’ ” 

And Antonito, understanding, sank upon his 
knees. 

Beside them, his eyes upraised, the padre moved 
his lips; but his prayer was shortened by a sound 
from the road below them. Nearer and nearer it 
came, plodding, creaking. Presently in the dim 
morning light a cart rolled by in the direction of 


ESPOSITO 


53 


the mountains, drawn by a mule, which was led by 
a bent old man. 

And this was not all. Across the canvased bur¬ 
den of the cart, slight, languid, tousle-headed, lay 
stretched the slumbering figure of a woman. With 
a low cry, the padre started down the bank, as if 
he would snatch her back. But something floating 
up through the mist halted him, as though a cold 
hand had been laid again upon his heart. 

Margarita, stirring in her sleep, had laughed. 


II 


DESPERADO 


MONO GRANDE is a big baboon. Really, it 



means a great ape, or plain baboon; but to 
Tito, who had seen its likeness, engraven as eating 
large fruits in the padre’s natural-history lesson, it 
had always seemed grandisimo. Not that Tito would 
have cared to own a very large one. But ever since 
his eyes had first lingered on the marvellous picture, 
Tito had longed to possess one of reasonable size, 
or at the very least, a very, very small one. 

As Tito was only nine years old, he was the young¬ 
est (and the thirtieth) of Padre Pedro’s adopted 
sons. They helped to make glad the padre’s heart, 
and in part to pay their way through a sunlit-vine¬ 
yard life in sight of the blue shadows of the Pyrenees, 
by planting poppies in his “Fields of Industry” at 
the foot of Terassa’s beautiful hill. 

When the magician came to Terassa for the Wine 
Festival, Tito was deeply stirred by his canvas- 
covered cart as it dragged up the winding highway. 
All the thirty little boys had looked forward to the 
first Wine Festival at Terassa. The padre said it 
would bring fame to the town, and they were to plant 
their finest red and yellow poppies in a pattern of 
Spanish flags around the dancing-green in the 
square. Foreigners would be coming—merchants 
from all countries to taste Terassa’s wines. There 


54 


DESPERADO 


55 


would be a great sale of lace, and for seven days 
there would be no lessons at the padre’s house by the 
church above the Chasm Road, and no work in the 
poppy-fields. There would be dancing all day long; 
and on the first day of the festival each of the thirty 
boys would have a coin of silver for himself, to buy 
what he chose. 

Padre Pedro sat, according to his daily custom, 
on the step of Old Rosa’s house across from the 
fields, chatting with her about the approaching 
festival. 

“There are no Malaga grapes finer than Vio- 
leta’s,” he said. “Nor is there any wine in Ruby that 
can surpass yours.” 

“And no priest in Spain,” said Rosa, “who sup¬ 
ports thirty orphans, as you do.” 

“Basta!” said the padre, reprovingly. “I do not 
like the term ‘orphans.’ Am I not their father? 
Have you yourself not mothered half of them for 
me? Besides, they are kept in part by the poppy 
money. From all that is saved we will buy a large 
greenhouse in the spring.” 

“And more orphans, probably,” said Rosa. 

“Why not?” asked Padre Pedro. “Do I not make 
good children of them?” 

“You spoil them,” said Old Rosa, brusquely. 
“Why does the child follow you?” She pointed a 
thin finger toward the road. Tito, watching the 
padre like a baby dog, was standing there in the sun. 
“Are you a mother, that he cannot breathe the air 
a rod away? Did you suffer for his birth, that he 
should love you so?” 

The padre seemed scarce to hear her. He was 
looking thoughtfully at Tito. “He is too small to 


56 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


work,” he said, gently. “I bade Antonito to be 
lenient with him. As to that, I have planned to give 
him to Maruja. She is worthy of him now. I am 
certain of it. And why not to-day as well as to¬ 
morrow? Majura shall have her festival before¬ 
hand.” 

Old Rosa’s face grew sterner than before. 

“Tito,” called the padre, “run on to the market¬ 
place and wait for me there;” and the brown-eyed 
puppy went obediently away. Rosa laid hold on the 
padre’s arm, and her words came tremulous with 
heat. 

“You give him to Maruja!” she cried. “Where 
is God’s justice?—To her!” 

“Where is your justice?” demanded the padre. 
“Do you condemn an unfortunate? Shall I find you 
resentful of a fallen woman?” But he could not 
check her speech. 

“You call her a ‘fallen’ woman. Did she not cast 
herself down? Did not God mock her sin with a 
child, and did He not take it away for punishment? 
And now you give to her again!” 

“Chis!” cried the padre. “Do you know that you 
are named Ugly Rosa behind your back? Presently 
I shall begin to understand why!” 

“I am not ashamed of what I am called behind my 
back,” said Rosa. “Coming from the lips of fools, 
it means I tell the truth.” 

Hastening from her wrath, the padre started to 
plod up the hot road into Terassa. There were many 
offices before him on this last day before the festival, 
but his thoughts were sunk for the moment in past 
things. Tito had come to him—“left on his door¬ 
step,” as Rosa had irritably said of all his thirty 


DESPERADO 


57 


sons—at the end of a year which had recorded his 
two greatest sorrows. It was the year when Maruja 
went away under dubious circumstances. And it 
was the same year when Miguel, an early favourite 
of the padre’s, had killed a man—Terassa’s only 
murder, in a country of hot blood. 

Of Maruja’s tragedy Terassa talked much but 
knew little, for Maruja had told nothing. She had 
been young, beautiful, and unmarried, and she had 
gone away. Old and beautiless after a few weeks, 
she had returned—a widow, having had no husband; 
childless, having had a child. 

“Young and beautiful and unmarried,” said the 
padre to himself. “And afterward . . . Well, I 
will give her Tito.” 

As to Miguel, as much was known as need be. 
He had been strong, and very fine to look at. Anto- 
nito, then a boy of thirteen, with hair as gold as 
money and eyes as green as grass, had not promised 
more. Miguel was darker, but not dark. He was 
the colour of an autumn leaf. And as gay and un¬ 
stable, too—yet he would have made a splendid 
farmer, and, for some lucky girl, a good and lusty 
husband. But one of the devil’s works had come 
that year to Terassa. The fonda had brought in a 
drink that pleased foreigners. It was stronger than 
mixed wines. Even to those who could drink Teras¬ 
sa’s red and yellow one after the other, and merely 
feel their blood wave like the flag of their country, 
it was like a match to paper. It ignited them. They 
flared up. It wiped from them the writing of long 
years. It turned them black. The padre spoke 
against it, but without enough words, or else not 
soon enough. Miguel drank it one night at the 


58 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


fonda. The next night he played cards as well. 
His fellow spoke lightly of a woman. Miguel 
snapped his cards on the table from the thumb down¬ 
ward, but did not speak. The other took the wom¬ 
an’s name again sneeringly, and after a pause taunt¬ 
ingly. Miguel struck him on the face with the flat 
of his hand, and then on the temple with his drink¬ 
ing vessel. The man fell noisily to the floor. When 
they lifted him up again, and found out what was 
the matter with him, Miguel had run away. 

“And they say he is a bandit!” reflected the padre, 
sorrowfully, as he plodded on. “Well, Maruja came 
back when we had thought her lost. Perhaps Miguel 
is still alive somewhere!”' 

He found Tito by the market, watching the 
magican’s cart, which, partly uncovered, gave out 
a glimpse of gay colours and sealed boxes and note¬ 
worthy toys. 

“To-morrow,” said the padre, “you shall have 
your silver coin, and buy what you will from the 
cart. Meantime I bring you to a dearer present.” 
Having said this, he became silent, and was lost in 
rumination till they came finally, behind the hill and 
looking toward the mountain, to the first house be¬ 
yond the town, in the chasm. It was Maruja’s 
house. 

“ Salud!” said the padre, coming up through her 
small garden. Tito, suddenly shy like a debated 
puppy about to be given a new master, clung to 
the black cord round his waist. “Daughter, shall we 
make lunch at your table?” 

The sad woman, so much older than her years, and 
so thin, flushed with unwonted pleasure; and the 
padre, holding Tito on one knee, and in one hand a 


DESPERADO 


59 


spoon for their curds and bread, told her of his 
purpose. 

“Maruja,” he said, “you see in my lap the young¬ 
est of my sons. He needs more than the little boys 
in the daytime, and more than me at night. I be¬ 
lieve you are a sanctified woman, and so I give him to 
you. Rear him up a good youth, who will grow to 
a good man.” 

Maruja was staring at him, wide-eyed. As she 
began to be credulous, she stretched her arms upon 
the table, and sank her head upon her arms, and her 
thin body shook all over. 

“Bring him for instruction at the right hours,” 
the padre continued; “and though he must play more 
than work, see that he learns such duties as are no 
larger than himself. Preferably, about the garden. 
Be a true mother to him. And if a good man asks to 
marry you, tell him nothing of yourself, but bid him 
come to me.” 

He set Tito down upon the floor and patted his 
cheek. “This is to be your mother, riene mio . Be 
an affectionate son to her;” and leaving them, Padre 
Pedro went about other tasks. 

Tito tried to love Maruja because the padre had 
bidden him to, but his thoughts would not go that 
way all in a moment. He had seen her innumerable 
times, going about the village, but she was not as 
pretty as Antonito’s wife, and people did not talk 
to her much or give her presents. She set up a bed 
for him, and gave him many things to eat, and was 
very kind all day, but he was afraid of her caresses. 
They were extravagant. They were not like the 
padre’s. 

As the sun climbed up from behind the mountains 


60 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


on the festival morning, piercing the chasm before 
Maruja’s house with big gold arrows through the 
mist, Tito woke. He was the first among all the 
thirty little boys who waited for their silver coins 
through the early hours in the square. 

The padre was long in coming, and when he came 
it was to face a busy day while Terassa and her 
strangers danced and idled. In the fishmonger’s he 
admired the silver scales of the great carps fetched 
alive in salt water from Barcelona; but sniffing sud¬ 
denly, and searching about the shop, he found three 
stale fishes, and, stamping his foot, hurled them into 
the street, whence their owner must cleanse them 
up at his own labour. In two shops of the lace- 
makers he bestowed praise alone; but going on to 
the third he found ancient Ines, who had once been 
the widow of a gentleman for a short time, making 
a design of the devil, which she thought she could 
sell to an American at the festival. Having paid her 
for the cost of her thread, he rent it apart before 
her frightened nose, and to her pious neighbour, who 
had set out his pins in a likeness of St. Peter, he 
spoke words of warning. When at last he had 
turned to the little boys in the square, they had 
fallen upon him bodily, able to forbear no longer, 
and swept him tumultuously to the magician’s booth. 

Here Tito gasped with a surprise that made him 
giddy. He had watched the booth for hours, yet 
he had not known that it had marionettes. They 
were hanging there, three of them. One was a French 
Pierrot, pink and white, like sticks of candy, and 
with a black mask across his little face. One was 
a Pierrette, in white with blue rosettes, and the third 
was a mono grande! 


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61 


The mono grande had, like the others, a little 
black mask. He dangled on his string between them, 
with his arms and legs stuck forward stiffly; but as 
Tito gazed at him, the magician started his marion¬ 
ettes, and the mono grande began to move up and 
down and to dance from side to side. He took off 
his mask, and put it on again. He kissed Pierrette, 
and struck Pierrot, and spoke to them, in a high, 
whining voice like the magician’s. 

When the show was over, Tito did not know what 
to buy. He wanted to ask the price of the mono 
grande; but he knew that it would cost a great deal 
too much. Besides, something told him not to be¬ 
tray his desire. 

So Tito did not ask, for already a purpose was 
forming dimly in his mind. With his silver coin he 
bought a yard of ribbon for Antonito’s wife, and 
when he had given it to her on the dancing-green, he 
sat down behind the musicians and watched the 
magician’s booth all day. 

Maruja put him to bed early, but when she had 
gone out to the festival he dressed again, lacing the 
back of his smock with great difficulty, and crept 
back to the square and into the little alley by the 
side of the shop. Several times he peeked round the 
corner and caught glimpses of the marionettes per¬ 
forming in the booth, more wonderful than ever with 
their shadows thrown by the torch-light. 

Late at night the padre passed him and entered 
the shop, and to his astonishment Tito saw him come 
out again with the magician at his heels and go be¬ 
fore the old man to the dancing-green. Then he 
heard the padre’s voice addressing the townspeople 
and condemning the old man as a seller of black 


62 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


magic, so that he was disgraced before all the citi¬ 
zens and must leave Terassa. As the padre’s tones 
grew stronger and his words more harsh, Tito told 
himself: “If he is a bad man, he does not deserve 
to have the mono grande.” He knew that such an 
argument was wrong, but he said it to himself over 
and over. Trembling from head to foot, he sud¬ 
denly slipped into the deserted shop and stole the 
mono grande. 

Tito shut his eyes as tightly as on the night be¬ 
fore, but sleep did not come to him. Hugging the 
precious object in his arms, he lay awake, consider¬ 
ing many things he had refused to think about all 
day. He was terrified at what he had done. He 
could not give the mono grande back, for what 
might the magician not do? The padre had said 
he was a bad man, and he might kill him. Besides, 
he did not wish to give it back. Yet if he kept it he 
could not play with it much. He might hide it in 
the chasm and play with it there sometimes, but its 
fur would be spoiled if it had to live under a stone. 

When Maruja came in and stood beside his bed 
he pretended to be asleep, hiding the mono grande 
deep under the bed clothes. She kissed his closed 
lids and his forehead, and went away to her own 
bed. When she was gone, sudden hot tears wet his 
face, and he felt sick with guilt. She would not 
love him if she knew. And the padre might never 
kiss him again. He had forgiven Jose for breaking 
Violeta’s plum-tree, but even that was not as wicked 
as breaking the rope that held the mono grande in 
its owner’s shop. If he lived in some other town, 
where there was nobody he loved, he could earn his 


DESPERADO 


63 


keep planting poppy-seeds, and play with it with¬ 
out, perhaps, feeling badly. It was unfortunate to 
have no money. He could never have bought such 
a toy, unless when he was a man he got rich—as he 
still might: rich enough to pay the price, and a little 
over, perhaps, for the sorrow he had caused the old 
man meanwhile. 

For the third time that day Tito got out of bed 
and dressed. The hour of chill had come, and he 
wrapped the mono grande carefully in his night¬ 
dress. When he had laboriously laced his smock 
he tucked under it his package of poppy-seeds. Tip¬ 
toeing past Maruja, he took from the cupboard 
some pieces of cheese and bread. He felt as if he 
were stealing again, but she had bidden him eat all 
he wished without asking. 

When the thick film of night-mist began to shift 
and rise in the chasm, Tito was plodding through it, 
chilled and shivering, far from Terassa, holding the 
mono grande tightly against his thumping heart. 

People were very kind to the padre and Maruja. 
He was calm; she was frantic. “We will find him,” 
he kept saying, while the furrow in his brow grew 
deeper. Maruja, her cheeks white and whiter around 
two red spots, ran everywhere, talking and talking. 

And Old Rosa talked—mainly about gypsies and 
bandits. “He is stolen,” said Rosa, “and a bad man 
will be made of him. Miguel ran away and became 
a bandit!” 

She and Maruja consorted together like born sis¬ 
ters. The festival paused for a whole day while for¬ 
eigners searched alike with Terassans through the 


64 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


valley. They ransacked the chasm. Word was sent 
to Ruby and to towns on the way. 

Yet Rosa was not satisfied. “Why do you not 
hunt down the gypsies?” she demanded of the padre, 
over and over. “They are as good as bandits!” 
And finally, with Maruja quivering on her one side, 
and the padre white-faced on the other, she cried: 
“If you do not go, I will; better your round legs at 
fifty years than my blown-out pipes at seventy!” 

At last the padre and Antonito rode through the 
chasm into the mountains, leagues farther than the 
farthest searchers, to the gyspy camp, and returned 
disheartened but satisfied. The gypsies, bad as ban¬ 
dits though they might be, were innocent of Tito. 
“He is dead!” wailed Maruja, and the padre could 
not comfort her, or himself, either. 

Far up by the mountains, at the head of a yellow 
slope of hard stubble, there is a small house made of 
wood and stones. Its walls, once red with berry- 
juice, were washed pink with rain. Behind it, be¬ 
tween lines of straggling corn, a stream ran tor¬ 
tuously downward, falling into the ravine with a 
monotonous racket. The sun, like a red ball on an 
invisible string, followed the waterfall into the ravine. 
The pink house turned to a square black shadow in 
the heavy night, with one yellow light marked out 
on it. 

A man sat in the little house, alone with his dull 
thoughts. That night they were of the stunted corn. 
The sun had been hot, the rain now scarce and now 
in torrents, and frost had come in August. The 
thick silk on the dwarfed stalks was withered to a 
damp brown, like the three-days’ beard on his face. 


DESPERADO 


65 


The man had been young once, and the face hand¬ 
some. Above the swarthy cheek-bones, under the 
heavy hair, the well-like eyes held the black look that 
isolation brings. On the floor of the one room lay a 
loose mat of brook-rushes. Over the low, rough bed 
was a jagged fragment of mirror, casting about the 
light of his tallow-dip. 

There was a sound outside the house, and he sat 
listening. It came again distinctly, and he sprang 
to his feet and threw the door wide open. Something 
stumbled forward and lay across the sill. 

Tito still hugged the mono grande in his arms. 
His clothes were torn, his feet were cut by stones, 
his body was limp. The man held back his head and 
poured some red wine from his hand down the dry 
throat. Tito, opening his eyes, put a hand on the 
man’s knee to steady himself, and they looked at 
each other. Tito was first to speak. 

“Thank you very much,” he said, politely. 

“Where did you come from?” demanded the man, 
wonderingly. 

“From Terassa.” 

“From Terassa? Alone?” 

“Yes,” answered Tito. The man stared at him 
doubtingly, but there was something in the great 
brown eyes that denied everything but the truth. 

“How?” 

“Partly walking and partly in a wagon.” 

“Whose wagon?” 

“I do not know. There was a whole procession.” 

“H’m!” said the man. “Gypsies. Did you hide in 
the wagon?” 

“Yes, sir,” said Tito, beginning to be frightened 
by the searching questions. 


66 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


“How far away are they?” 

“I do not know. A long distance, I think. I 
climbed for several hours.” 

“What have you eaten?” 

“Mulberries yesterday, and some meat to-night.” 

“Eat now,” commanded the man; and forthwith 
set before him meat and corn and more wine. 

When he had finished everything, Tito said, look¬ 
ing at him anxiously: “If you will let me stay here, 
I will work very hard.” 

“We can talk of that later,” said the man. “What 
is your name?” 

“Tito. What is yours?” 

“Miguel.” 

Tito looked at him wide-eyed from head to foot, 
as though this started some new train of thought; 
but he only said: “I think I will go to bed now. 
Will I sleep in that bed?’ 

“Yes—I suppose so,” said Miguel, looking around 
the small house and scratching his head. “But if I 
roll on you in the night, wake me up, for I am 
heavy, and my sleep is heavy, too.” 

“Thank you very much,” said Tito again, and he 
pulled off his jacket. Miguel still watched him won- 
deringly, but in silence. Presently Tito came over 
and, turning his back, stood before his chair. Miguel 
sat helplessly staring at the waiting back, doing 
nothing. What did the child stand there for? Tito 
glanced over his shoulder and saw the puzzled face. 

“The strings, please,” he said. Miguel, with fum¬ 
bling, unaccustomed fingers, strove with their unlac¬ 
ing, and Tito, after prolonged effort, struggled from 
his smock. The small, velvet trousers followed it, 
neatly folded and their rents patted down. 


DESPERADO 


67 


“You would better not take off anything more,” 
suggested Miguel, hesitatingly. “You would not 
have anything to sleep in.” 

“Thank you very much,” said Tito, “but I 
brought my night-dress,” and unwound it from the 
mono grande. 

This donned, he came and stood again before 
Miguel, but this time facing him. Miguel looked 
him over carefully. There was nothing to untie, 
nothing to tie up. Suddenly from some deep and 
forgotten cell in his consciousness the strange 
thought somehow came to him that Tito expected to 
be kissed good night. He stood up hastily and 
walked away, picking up the mono grande to cover 
his flight, and setting it in a corner. Tito turned 
toward the bed, his lip trembling a little. 

“Good night,” he said. 

Miguel started queerly at the long-forgotten 
words. 

“Good night—good night,” he said. 

In another moment Tito was lost in a dreamless 
sleep. Miguel stood a long time watching him, 
dazed, before he followed. 

When Miguel woke, he was alone. The advent of 
Tito lingered vaguely in the back of his mind, as if 
he had dreamed. His house was as silent and empty 
as on any morning in nine years. But as he pulled 
on his clothes he saw the mono grande. It was sit¬ 
ting stiffly in the corner like a fragment of a dream, 
grotesque in the sunlight. 

He stepped out of the house. Tito was kneeling 
by a freshly dug trench under the window, planting 
his poppy-seeds. 


68 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


“What are you doing?” asked Miguel, in aston¬ 
ishment. 

“Planting poppy-seeds,” answered Tito, looking 
up at him. 

“What for?” 

“To pay my keep,” said Tito. 

“You can stay here without paying your keep,” 
stammered Miguel. 

“But that would not be fair,” said Tito, and he 
pressed down a slippery gray seed with his thumbs. 

“How would it pay your keep?” asked Miguel. 

“You sell them to the flower-market in Barce¬ 
lona.” 

“But I have not been to Barcelona in ten years,” 
said Miguel. 

Tito looked at him wonderingly. 

“Come in and eat,” said Miguel, shortly. 

They had a breakfast of dry corn, boiled white 
and big like samp, with seven drops of red wine in 
the hot water. Tito ate heartily, but his eyes wan¬ 
dered forth and back, passing from Miguel’s hand¬ 
some brown face to the mono grande in the corner, 
and from the black little eyes of the monkey to the 
round brown ones of the man. 

“Are you a bandit ?” he asked. 

Miguel stared at him again. “Is that what they 
say of me at Terassa?” 

Tito hesitated. “I do not know. There are two 
Miguels. One ran away and is a bandit. The other 
is San Miguel, who has a statue in the poppy-fields. 
You are not a saint, are you?” 

“No,” said Miguel. “I am a murderer.” 

Tito looked at Miguel with large eyes. 


DESPERADO 


69 


“How sorry you must be!” he said. “I thought 
you were only a thief.” 

“I do not understand,” said Miguel. 

“The padre named me for Titus, who died on one 
of the sides of Christ. I thought Miguel might be 
the name of the other thief.” 

“No,” said Miguel, “I do not think I am a thief. 
I am only an outlaw.” He clasped his hands to¬ 
gether on his knees. “How did you learn to plant 
poppy-seeds ?” 

“From the padre. We plant the seeds in his 
Fields of Industry, and sell the poppies in Barcelona. 
When we are older we will be good farmers.” 

“I would have been a good farmer,” said Miguel, 
“but I have not been in Terassa, either, for ten 
years.” 

“That was before I was born,” said Tito. 

“The padre had no Fields of Industry then,” said 
Miguel. ‘Who are your parents?” 

“The padre was. But now it is a woman, for he 
gave me away.” 

“Gave you away?” 

“Yes, to a thin woman. She had no husband and 
no child; so she was unhappy.” 

They were silent again, and then Tito asked: “Are 
you the man that ran away?” 

“Yes,” said Miguel. 

“So did I run away,” said Tito. 

“Why?” asked Miguel. 

“Because I am an outlaw, too,” said Tito. “I 
stole the mono grande.” 

“Well, you can stay here, anyway,” said Miguel. 
“Go plant your seeds if you like.” 

Tito worked all day, urged on by the brisk moun- 


70 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


tain air, and through the long afternoon Miguel, 
sitting on the sill of the door, learned more of him 
and of his journey. 

After supper, Tito asked: “It is ten years since 
you have been to Terassa ?” 

“Yes,” said Miguel. 

“You have lived in this house all alone?” 

“Yes. Sometimes I have traded with the gypsies.” 

“Then what people have there been for you to 
love?” 

“None,” said Miguel. 

“None anywhere?” 

“No,” said Miguel. “I hate the whole world.” 

“But that cannot be so,” said Tito. 

“Why not?” Miguel asked. 

“Because the padre says that not to love people 
is death. In ten years you would be dead.” 

“You may be right,” Miguel said, after a time. 
“Nevertheless, I think that it is so.” 

Tito pondered again. “But it cannot be so, any¬ 
way, because you love me, do you not?” 

Miguel gaped at him. 

“Yes,” he admitted, slowly. “I suppose I do.” 

“Then why did you say it?” asked Tito. 

“Because I thought I was right,” said Miguel. 

“The padre says you must think first before you 
do or say anything,” said Tito.” 

“Does the padre know everything in the world?” 
asked Miguel, crossly. 

“Yes,” said Tito. 

“Well,” demanded Miguel, “did you think before 
you stole the mono grande?” 

Tito did not answer, and Miguel sat bending for¬ 
ward in gloomy thought. He was uneasy, vaguely 


DESPERADO 


71 


exasperated at Tito’s catechism. He was not accus¬ 
tomed to direct questions and frank comments. 
Tito’s silence disturbed him even more. Glancing 
up, he saw that the small shoulders were drooped 
and quivering. Flushing, he went awkwardly over 
to him. 

“What I meant,” he said, hesitatingly, “was that 
I did not think before I killed the man.” 

Tito’s quiet weeping changed to a quick sob. “Be¬ 
fore I stole the mono grande, I thought for a long 
time!” he said. 

While Miguel unlaced the puzzling smock that 
night he found himself wondering whether Tito would 
again expect to be kissed. But apparently Tito did 
not. When his night-dress was on he walked away 
toward the bed; but looking over his shoulder, he 
saw Miguel hesitating on the edge of his chair. He 
went back, and Miguel kissed him good night. 

But Tito did not go to sleep. He lay awake beside 
Miguel, thinking of what he had done and looking 
at the mono grande. The silver-green moonlight 
coming through the window shone on its black-bead 
eyes, and it seemed to watch him for hours. The 
domino was crumpled and broken in its paw, as 
though it had taken it down to watch the better. At 
last the moonlight went away, but the furry limbs 
and little eyes stayed in the black house. 

“What is the matter?” asked Miguel, turning over 
in the dark. 

“I am afraid of the mono grande!” said Tito. 

“I am afraid, too,” whispered Miguel. 

In the morning Tito started at his trench again. 
Though he had only a few seeds left, they lasted 


72 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


well, for the best poppies are planted far apart. But 
several times he went to the door of the house and 
peered in at the mono grande. 

“Why do you do that?” Miguel asked each time. 

Tito did not explain, but toward afternoon he 
grew quite idle, and sat staring across the trench 
through the doorway of the house. 

“What is the matter?” asked Miguel. 

“I—am afraid of the mono grande,” said Tito, his 
eyes on the neglected trench. 

After a silence Miguel said: “Why not throw it 
away ?” 

“I am afraid to throw it away. If I did, I—I 
could never give it back to him.” 

“Suppose,” said Miguel, hesitatingly, “that you 
pay him for it instead.” 

“I have no money,” said Tito. 

“I have a little,” said Miguel. 

“Don’t you need that to pay for what you did?” 

Miguel smiled grimly. “No one can pay for a 
man’s life with money.” 

“You might pay for the funeral,” suggested Tito. 

Miguel thought deeply for a moment. “Yes,” he 
said, “I suppose the padre must have paid for it.” 

“Besides,” said Tito, “we have to confess.” 

“We did confess,” returned Miguel. “You told 
me and I told you.” 

Tito shook his head sadly. “But we are not the 
padre,” he said. 

“Then,” asked Miguel, helplessly, “what are we 
going to do?” 

“I suppose,” said Tito at last, “that we ought to 
go to the padre.” 


DESPERADO 73 

Miguel was silent for a long while. He grew very 
white. Finally he said: 

“Yes, I suppose we ought to go.” 

When the little pink house was tightly closed and 
barred, and they started hand in hand, Tito with 
the mono grande and Miguel with his money, to de¬ 
scend the yellow slope, Tito looked back over his 
shoulder at the lonely place, but Miguel did not dare 
look back. There was a strange, hard feeling in his 
throat. 

When they came up out of the chasm back of 
Terassa, Tito saw the light of Maruja’ s house 
through the mist and ran toward it. 

“We will go in here first,” he said, unlatching the 
gate, “and to the padre afterward.” 

“No! No! I am afraid of this house!” cried 
Miguel, trembling all over and leaning against the 
gate; but Tito had run through the garden to the 
door, and Miguel followed him. 

Maruja was sitting with her head sunk upon the 
table when Tito threw open the door and stood be¬ 
fore her. With a wild cry she swooped upon him 
and caught him to her, bending over him and crush¬ 
ing him to her breast in a frenzy of terrified wonder. 

Then she saw Miguel. She shrank back against 
the table, letting Tito drop to the floor. 

In a voice so low that it sounded through the little 
room like the rustling of leaves in a tree, Miguel 
breathed: “Is that your child?” 

“It is our child.” 

Their thin, changed faces stared through the 
years at each other over Tito’s head. 


74 , 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


“I—I never knew,” he faltered. 

“No one knew. The padre does not know.” 

Her tears came with the words, and she cried 
wildly: “Why did he run away?—Tito, Tito, why 
did you run away from me?” 

Tito did not answer, but only clung to her skirt, 
and Miguel said: “He ran away as I did—because 
he had done wrong, and he was afraid.” 

“Afraid of what? Where did you find him? What 
made you come back?” 

“Tito made me come back. We came to tell the 
padre. Maruja”—his voice broke, and his words 
came haltingly—“there is something that you do 
not know. The man I—killed—spoke ill of you. He 
had found us out. He mocked you, and taunted me 
with your name.” 

A burning light crept into Maruja’s faded eyes. 

“You killed him because he spoke ill of me?” 

“I struck him for it. I did not mean to kill him. 
But I was a coward to run away. Maruja—if I am 
not—arrested—would you marry a man who had 
killed a man?” 

She shrank farther back, trembling more than 
ever. 

“You must ask the padre,” she said. 

“We are going to him now, Tito and I,” answered 
Miguel. 

“I have come to you,” said the padre’s voice be¬ 
hind them. He was standing in the doorway, his 
face white and lined, but a great light of happiness 
in his eyes. They had started, all three, and, each 
with an own confession, gazed at him in both love 
and fear. 


DESPERADO 


75 


“Come to me here,” he said, holding out two 
trembling hands. “My beloved sons—my oldest and 
my youngest!” 

The mono grande lay forgotten on the floor. 


Ill 


FUEGO 

I T was in that part of the world which is neither 
France nor Spain, the part which is south of 
one and north of the other, west of Italy, and east 
of the sea. The inn stood, gray and weather-beaten, 
below acacia-trees. They grew persistently up the 
side of the low mountain, and June had brought 
their one week’s holiday of long blossoms to hang, 
white and still, over the crumbling eaves. 

The American woman sat on the steps, looking 
down the yellow, narrow road. She was more lonely 
than alone, for the keeper of the inn was near her, 
unpacking his new cases of wine and talking at ran¬ 
dom. 

“Madame finds our mountains wearisome,” he said, 
slipping the husk from a thin bottle. “Or perhaps 
madame finds it too difficult to paint—or,” correct¬ 
ing himself, “not beautiful enough.” 

A fraction of a smile hardened one corner of the 
woman’s mouth. It was not the innocent reference 
to her painting, it was the “madame” that made it 
hard. Gazing down the road to the open fields of 
valley stubble, she winced at the unmarried years 
that brought “madame” to the lips*of the keeper of 
the inn. She had become selective in the matters of 
life. She chose her words. And inn-keepers never 
chose theirs. She called herself a painter now, not 
an artist. Success made artists. 

76 


FUEGO 


77 


She did not answer the keeper of the inn. She 
knew there was no need till the new case was empty. 
His intermittent voice went on, with the monotonous 
irregularity of an insect’s. Gradually her mind 
heard it, and she listened again. 

“But life, the travellers tell me, is dull everywhere. 
That applies, of course, only to gentlefolk and to 
artists. So you should be glad, madame, that you 
are simply rich, and have the qualities of neither.” 

A cylinder of straw fell near the woman’s feet, 
and she leaned over and picked it up. 

“How glad I am,” she said, slowly, “that you do 
not speak humorously.” 

The host paused, a bottle in one hand, a wrapper 
in the other, and looked at her. “But, madame,” he 
said, a little troubled, “how could I speak lightly 
upon so delicate a subject? It is only when ma-mad- 
emoiselle is gloomy that one tries to amuse her. For 
instance, there is a town called Terassa, across there 
toward the Mediterranean, where, my wife says, 
everybody is happy!” 

“Yes,” said the woman, absently. She was gazing 
again at the distant stubble-fields. The thoughtful 
“mademoiselle” had been more troubling than the 
thoughtless “madame.” 

“In Terassa, my wife says, there is a priest named 
Padre Pedro, a wonderful priest who succeeds in 
getting almost everybody married. Perhaps even 
mada—mademoiselle would be happy in Terassa!” 

“Terassa. Very well. I will remember,” she said 
shortly. 

The insect voice hummed on, but she did not listen. 
She was enumerating four, six, seven weeks, one, 
two, five pictures; one mountain; one Spaniard; 


78 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


one French peddler; one-half peasant French, one- 
half peasant Spanish, total one peasant (the three 
of them had been different, but their pictures much 
alike) ; and, yesterday, one acacias. Plain bad, the 
acacias. Acacias are mostly white, with pink 
handles. So, of course, her white had given out, 
when she had enough pink for a Psyche. 

“Perhaps the circus would amuse madame. It is 
here now, and there will be a performance to-night, 
and, if all do not come to-night, another to-morrow 
night. The preparations are in progress. Has not 
madame noticed ? Or perhaps she would not interest 
herself. It is all there, directly before her eyes.” 

Far down in the yellow fields the black, moving 
objects took on meaning for her: the oxen lowering 
and lifting their heads in the shimmering glare, the 
ebony band that crossed their necks, the manikin 
human figures that moved fro and to against the 
gold of the sun; and that straight line, up and 
down, that came between her eyes, like a coarse woof 
in the canvas—that must be the tent-pole, dark and 
naked in the radiating heat. 

“There have been stranger things than that 
madame should be amused by the circus. Except 
me, all in the town will be there.” 

“And will that be so many?” This time the 
smile touched her eyes. 

“And from many miles as well—several in the 
mountains, and more than a league more through the 
valley. In all, above two hundred, either to-night 
or the sum of both nights.” 

In a flash of sunlight from the burnished field 
she saw a streak of black curve across the horizon. 
A man had lifted the yoke from the oxen, and thrown 


FUEGO 


79 


it on the ground. The dark line of the tent-pole 
had vanished, and around it was rising a drooping 
gray cone. 

“Even there have been some who have gone the 
two nights—with the privilege, on the second night, 
of kissing the lady gymnast. Though that would 
not interest madame, unless to paint. But I cannot 
say if that would apply to this circus—whether 
there would be such doings. Yet I know that it 
is a fine circus, and if it were not for my profession, 
I myself would go. 

“Their treasure is a girl who is not afraid of fire. 
Even madame, with her brave red hair, might be 
afraid of a thing so unnatural as that. But this girl 
is not afraid. She rides standing up upon a horse. 
She rides very fast, and she carries a wooden ring set 
on fire, and throws it in the air. It can be said with 
some reason that she is magic. For she catches 
the ring, all fire, again and again, and at last she 
jumps through it, holding it in her hands, upon the 
horse’s back. In order that there be no cheating, 
she lights the hoop herself, madame, from a candle. 
Indeed, she would let you come from your own place 
and light it. . . . She is a Spanish girl.” 

A faint cloud had floated into the valley, and hung 
melting beyond the tent. An arm of the dying sun 
reached out and struck it, and lavender blood suf¬ 
fused it. One shaft of gold light struggled in the 
fields. 

The woman rose. 

“Even my wife admits that Terassa itself can have 
seen nothing more wonderful. Perhaps madame 
would condescend to accompany my wife. My wife 


80 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


will always go to the circus. At least madame might 
find something there that she could paint. 5 * 

The woman laughed. “Or something to fall in 
love with, 55 she said. 

“Ah, 55 said the host, deprecatingly, “now it is 
madame that is humorous.” 

She looked at him abruptly. 

“Please call me by my name,” she said; “stop 
calling me ‘madame. 5 Say ‘miss, 5 and then my name. 55 

Startled and abashed, the inn-keeper stared. 

“As you see fit, 55 he stammered—“madame— 
mademoiselle- 55 

Through the faintly star-lighted night the trio 
journeyed slowly down to the circus—the American 
woman and the inn-keeper’s wife together in the 
little cart, the inn-keeper leading the donkey. The 
American woman spoke to him. 

“Why do you not see it with us ?’ 

“But my wife must see it,” he answered, simply; 
“we may not leave the inn to the servant. 55 

Below, two yellow torches flared at the entrance 
to the tent, and in occasional windings of the road 
their yellow light would flare upon the woman, fit¬ 
fully illuminating her face to a white pallor, firing 
her bronze-red hair, vivifying her purple cloak of 
royal, heavy colour—more deep, more glowing than 
the dying cloud that had stirred her in the dumb, 
still twilight. In the glare of the blowing torches, 
almost embarrassed in the groups of staring folk, 
she descended from the cart, the peasant woman 
clinging, in a quiver of nervous excitement, to her 
arm. 

She looked for the picture of the Spanish girl who 



FUEGO 


81 


was not afraid of fire, but a torn red cloth had been 
hung over it, and where this sagged at the top she 
could only read, in crude, yellow letters, “La 
Fuego!” 

Across the entrance rail the host was speaking to 
them. “I will return for you.” His wife released his 
hand with a gasp, and now, with all ten fingers fast¬ 
ened on the woman’s arm, dragged her under the 
folds of the canvas. 

They sat on boards in the small, dim tent. It was 
nearly filled, and half lighted by one oil lamp in the 
centre. The circus began: a dingy parade of ani¬ 
mals : a llama, a monkey on a dog, a manufactured 
zebra, in single file like a celibate procession into the 
ark. Then a man rode on two horses, hands in air, 
feet two feet apart, and a pair of lady gymnasts, 
like a set of sullen statues, pulled their trapeze from 
the roof. 

“Nothing, nothing that I couldn’t do myself,” re¬ 
flected the American, grimly. 

Then came the clown. 

His hair was red, redder than her own; tight, like 
crinkled waves of paint, upon his head, and his face 
was as white as milk, a hue that, in the thin glare of 
the lamp, was whiter, deathlier than powder. With 
her chin on her hand the American woman was lean¬ 
ing forward, and as he stood still to bow she found 
herself looking straight into his eyes. 

He bowed—toward her, and to right and left. He 
was the clown, and the crowd laughed. Even before 
he commenced his tumbling, his grotesqueries, they 
laughed. He was a clown, and they did not know 
he was not funny. They had come to be amused. 

The inn-keeper’s wife was tugging at the Ameri- 


82 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


can’s cloak. “It is now,” she whispered, tensely. 
“When the clown is finished, then the Spanish girl 
comes with her fire! Oh, I am too happy! If only 
my dear husband were with me l” 

The clown gravely left the ring amid shouts of 
laughter, and in anticipating silence the audience 
stirred and waited. 

“Ah, look, look, madame!” pleaded the inn-keep¬ 
er’s wife. “Look at the gate, over there. She will 
come in there! See, the clown has sat down there, 
just where she will come in. He is to hand her the 
candle. See, he already has it in his hand!” 

And the woman gazed again into the white face 
of the clown. It was an ascetic face, thin and long 
and delicate. Across the circle of the tent, it was a 
narrow, white triangle, with eyes of hollow spots, like 
a piece of linen with two holes burned in it; but 
already, on her painter’s vision, its acute outlines 
had fastened like the first, unchangeable strokes on 
an engraver’s plate—the angular, red-yellow brows, 
above the brown, round, reddish eyes, the slender, 
shadowing bones over the hollow cheeks; the sharp, 
small, hawk-like nose; the straight line of the sensi¬ 
tive mouth, colourless above and below the narrow 
scarlet of the tight-closed lips. 

A murmur of surprised disappointment rippled 
through the spectators. A woman was standing in 
the gateway, but it was not La Fuego. She wore a 
head-dress of spangled pinions, and a robe of dull 
colours that hid her figure the while it both clung and 
swayed about it. She ran suddenly forward, and as 
suddenly halted. She stood motionless as a statue, 
yet the robe, though there was no gust in the tent, 
undulated about her. Lifting her hands, she 


FUEGO 


83 


whirled it from her shoulders and swung it inside 
out. 

It was indeed a quickened fabric, patterned with 
living little parrots. She flung it upward, and they 
fled away from it, making a rich streak through the 
air. At a shrill sweet cry from her, a cry brilliant 
like metal, they swept in a curving little pageant 
back to her, and swarmed upon her, walking up and 
down and round upon her as if she were a seed- 
sprinkled ground, then massing upon her in a settle¬ 
ment of shivering colours as if she were a tree. 

“To paint it! To paint it!” breathed the Amer¬ 
ican woman, almost aloud, almost with a gasp. But, 
with a sharp sinking of the heart, she knew that 
the movement, the colour, the spirit were not for 
paint of hers. She found herself envying this female 
fellow creature who could so command creatures, 
wondering what her life might be, what her deriva¬ 
tion, her history. She especially wondered if she 
was beautiful, and looked again, intensely. The 
Parrot Woman and her parrots had vanished. 

The voice of the inn-keeper’s wife was whispering, 
like a vibrant wire, in her ear. 

“Now, now! She must come now! Surely she 
must come now!” But an old man was standing in 
the gateway. Hesitant, his silk hat twisting in his 
hands, he advanced before the hushed, expectant 
villagers. The intangible pall of a coming calamity 
was upon their holiday spirits. 

In the centre the old man paused and looked help¬ 
lessly around. Then his eyes met those of the clown, 
where he sat cross-legged by the gate, and, seeming 
to take new courage, he bowed. 

“Signore and signori,” he began, unsteadily—• 


84 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


“signore and signori! I have to tell you that Senor- 
ita Fuego will not appear to-night. We crave your 
patience, and your pardon.” His voice stopped, and 
then, as one who remembers the kernel of his errand, 
he spoke again. “This,” his voice quavered, “this 
disappointment, signore and signori, we tell you with 
broken hearts, for it is because Senorita Fuego died 
last night. For this reason we hope that you will 
pardon us, and that you will enjoy the rest of our 
performance.” 

He turned away with drooping shoulders toward 
the gate; but a warning finger from the clown ar¬ 
rested him, and he turned back again. There was 
more courage in his voice this time. 

“I did not tell you, signore and signori, that our 
clown will take her place.” 

And as he started to leave, another thought wan¬ 
dered to his mind, and he sadly, slowly put his 
hands to the ground and turned clownlike hand¬ 
springs out of the sawdust ring. 

In the deep quiet of the audience, a quick throb 
passed through the American woman’s heart. The 
inn-keeper’s wife leaned against her heavily. 

In the gateway a horse was standing, and out of 
the darkness the clown sprang onto its back and 
rode into the ring. He had doffed his black-and- 
white costume, and the peasants saw him riding in 
the knee-breeches and short jacket of their own 
people. 

In the centre of the ring, planting its hoofs, the 
horse stopped, with the clown erect, fragilely poised 
on its broad haunches below the hanging lamp, his 
hoop in one hand, his candle in the other. 


EUEGO 


85 


Her elbow on her knee, her chin upon her wrist, 
the American woman leaned forward. 

He touched the candle to the hoop, and bright 
fire, like a snake in boiling water, curled, licking, 
around it. Then the yellow circle sprang from his 
hand into the air, and the clown rode around the 
ring, tossing it, high and ahead of him, again and 
again, catching it in his naked hand, twirling it 
around his head, flecking the golden disk from the 
muscles of his long, white fingers from one palm to 
the other. 

It was his hands on which the woman’s look was 
fastened, as they closed and twitched and opened on 
the bounding ring of fire. She had thought of La 
Fuego’s feat as a thing of dexterity, of harmless, 
arithmetic calculation; of La Fuego as a poor child 
of trickery, flaunting a spangled gown through a 
dangerless, trick-ruled flame, with two unfired spaces 
in her hoop, where she would catch it with the 
accuracy of long, hard-working years. 

But she could see the hands of the clown, and the 
unmistakable lucidity of sight bound her brain to 
conviction. Once, tearing her eyes from his hands, 
she saw his face through the ring. 

Directly in front of her he was dancing the hoop 
in short circles before his body. Behind the light of 
it, the crimson hue of his mouth was gone from his 
face, and she looked upon dead colour, chalk out¬ 
lines, and the tunnels of his eyes. Their depths 
focused in hers through the fire, and the hallucina¬ 
tion told her that there was some pact between them. 

The flickering hoop passed over his head, down 
around his body, under his flying feet; up again, 
spinning alone into space, back to his hands, under 


86 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


his feet, over his head. A fluttering gasp came from 
the staring people. The clown was gone. The 
Miracle of Fire was over. 

They passed out of the tent into the night, jostled 
by the chattering peasants. Under the torch-light, 
on the metal-green grass by the mule cart, the old 
circus-master was bargaining with the inn-keeper 
for a piece of ground in the cemetery. The dead 
girl was his daughter, and, respecting his grief, the 
inn-keeper sold to him cheaply. 

As they plodded upward through the dark, the 
inn-keeper’s wife, with a deep sigh, bent from the cart 
and leaned her head against her husband’s shoulder; 
but presently she turned and looked wonderingly at 
the American woman. 

“Madame is weeping,” she said, patting her gently 
on the knee. “Madame weeps for the poor girl who 
is dead?” 

“Yes,” said the American woman. “And for all 
women.” 

The next morning mass was said for the dead 
child in the church, and the American woman knelt, 
shivering, on the bare floor. A drizzle of fine rain 
would descend presently, for a gray day had fallen 
upon the valley and risen up from it in patches of 
thick mist. The host of the inn was by her as they 
went out. 

“Perhaps it would interest madame to know why 
this girl can be buried, knowing that she died in 
another town and without a priest. For in our 
church there are many necessary absolutions: the 
absolution of fire and of water; the absolution of 
desire; the absolution for those who die in war. 


FUEGO 


87 


Dying in fire, one is therefore purged and escapes 
purgatory completely; in water and in war, acci¬ 
dents, madame, are bound to happen. And in de¬ 
sire—” 

She laid a restraining hand upon him. “Ask the 
old man if I may follow his daughter to the grave.” 

The inn-keeper looked at her. “But madame would 
be doing an honour!” 

She pointed to the old Spaniard. “Tell him I 
would like to honour his daughter. Ask him if I 
may go.” 

“Madame has a kind heart,” said the voice of the 
clown, over her shoulder. 

The procession started, drearily, in the gray mist, 
plodding along the lonely miles to the burying- 
ground. Now before her, like a wanderer, now be¬ 
hind her, like an echo, the clown walked silently, 
with bent shoulders. The wavering string of dim 
figures reminded her of the parade in the circus. 
One of the lady gymnasts carried her baby, and 
might have been the dog carrying the monkey. She 
pictured the old man turning handsprings to his 
daughter’s grave. 

She stood apart, lonely, depressed, as the coffin of 
boards was set down. The priest, centered in the 
small group of mountebanks and peasants, was pre¬ 
paring to read the burial service. A few paces away, 
the clown, his clenched hands hanging motionless, 
rose through the gray light like a weird monument. 
The old Spaniard was talking to the host of the inn. 
His vague, meandering grief had given place to 
some particular sorrow, and his arms, in a despair¬ 
ing gesture, reached out and fell, like the clown’s, 
to his sides. She beckoned the host to her. 


88 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


“What is the trouble?” she asked. 

“God has taken his daughter from him, madame, 
and he says that God’s will be done. But there is yet 
grief left on earth for him, for he must send her 
to the Madonna in that unpainted box, without a 
pall.” 

The woman, her purple cloak on her arm, went 
to the old man quickly. 

“Senor,” she said, “forgive a stranger’s intrusion. 
May she pay a tribute to your dead? Will you 
permit your daughter to wear my raiment to the 
Virgin?” As she held out the purple cloak, the old 
man raised his black eyes to hers. 

“It has covered many dead things,” she said. 
Watching her like a frightened dog in winter, dumbly 
he took it on his trembling arms. 

The priest, the old man, and the inn-keeper spread 
the royal colour on the coffin. The clown’s voice 
came through the mist. “Signora is herself a 
Virgin!” 

Turning, her soul shrinking under the innocent 
words, she saw that he was holding his own short, 
tight jacket outstretched. “No, no!” she said, step¬ 
ping back. For answer he lifted his head toward the 
sky, and she saw the fine rain beating on his up¬ 
turned face. Then he silently slipped it over her 
arms and around her. As his hands touched hers 
she convulsively clutched the jacket together at her 
breast, turning away. 

“I have done nothing,” she said. 

“Madame has done the Virgin’s work,” he an¬ 
swered, gravely. “Is that nothing? When Madonna 
looked into my eyes last night, I felt that she was 
looking into my soul, which has been damned. But 


FUEGO 


89 


I felt that she was kind, and to-day I know that she 
is kind.” 

From the graveside the tones of the priest came 
hollow and melancholy through the rain. The coffin 
of La Fuego, who was not afraid of fire, sank into 
the oblong hole. 

Again the woman and the clown were the last in 
the sombre procession. She walked looking con¬ 
stantly at the ground. She felt that he was going 
to speak again, and looked at him. There was a 
hesitant, querying appeal in his eyes, and at her 
glance he spoke. 

“Is there a thing that I could do for the Ma¬ 
donna ?” 

Instinctively, helplessly, the answer flashed to her 
lips: “Let me—” She stopped the words. The de¬ 
sire to see his hands had possessed and unnerved 
her. She choked back the cruel request, and instead 
remembered her earliest desire. “Before you leave 
the town, let me paint your picture.” 

In his voice was an innocent surprise: “To paint 
my picture? The Madonna, then, is an artist? But 
this she could have had for the asking! It is too 
little a request.” 

His longing to serve her swept a deep colour to 
the woman’s face; and suddenly the inevitable answer 
trembled from her: 

“Tell me how she died.” 

A strange light flashed into his face. 

“Ah, that, Madonna, is indeed a gift! Yes, when 
I have given it, the Madonna will know! For in 
that, I pay to her the last life of my soul.” 

A sense of omen kept her silent, and they walked 
after the far, dim shadows of the old man and the 


90 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


inn-keeper and the priest and the rest from the 
circus. She felt her heart contract, and she knew 
that she was trembling. As before the church, like 
some spirit his quiet voice came upon her out of the 
mist. 

“It is above a year that I have played in this 
circus, Madonna. It is a poor circus, but with La 
Fuego we hoped for much, and the old man dreamed 
that we might cross the sea, to your country.” 

“You know my country?” 

“From the kindness of your heart, Madonna, for 
the Americans have hearts larger than their purses. 
The circus, it is Spanish. As for me, I am Italian.” 

“Napoli?” 

“Roma.” 

They walked for a time in silence. 

“By birth, I am not of the circus. I am a more 
educated man, for I speak three languages, whereas 
the rest know perfectly but the French and the Span¬ 
ish. And after my own way, I, too, am an artist, 
Madonna. With my own hands I painted the zebra. 
This might be called cheating, yet is not art greater 
than nature? And it was not a simple task. 

“Therefore, though I am but an indifferent clown, 
I was of value to the circus, and for the sake of the 
child I took its hardships for my services. 

“She was but that, Madonna, a child; or I think 
she would not have laughed at me. The Italian 
women are not so. They will kill as they will kiss, 
Madonna—for love. But they do not laugh as the 
Spanish woman laughs, which is always. She was 
but a child. Her body will be sixteen years to-mor¬ 
row. 


FUEGO 


91 


“And so I stayed with the circus, encouraging her 
to leap through the hoop, and to stand more steadily 
upon the horse, and to be merry on the long foot- 
journeys. For I loved her, Madonna.” 

The American woman stumbled in the muddy path. 
The clown’s hand caught her elbow and again they 
walked in silence. 

“You must know that the old man had put his 
hopes upon her, teaching her to ride, to dance, and 
to tumble. This showed her the skill of jumping 
through a hoop, and at last he made her do this 
wonderful feat of leaping through a hoop set on 
fire. 

“So when I came to the circus I sometimes played 
games with her; and afterward, in the long marches 
from one town to another, I carried her upon my 
back when she was hurt from riding on the camel. 

“For at that time we owned a camel, Madonna. 
But it became sick, and in one village the boy who 
had charge of it was frightened because it died, and 
secreted it in a brook, and we were expelled from 
that town for polluting the drinking-water. The old 
man, Madonna, did not give the boy up to punish¬ 
ment, for he feels keenly for such frailties; so we 
were forced to turn into another route, and presently 
we were in a bad low country. The little Fuego 
walked by my side, and now and again we were lost 
in spaces of white sand and short green shrubs. The 
zebra itself grew weary in the heavy sand underfoot, 
and the great trial of our enterprise was upon us, as 
an eagle casting its shadow down upon a man. 

“Before and about us were long lines of dull 
bushes, which grew up out of the white sand. Trees 
also appeared, but they were short, as though God, 


92 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


Madonna, had pushed them back again with His 
hand. God was there Himself, Madonna, sitting in 
some part of the blue, hard sky, which curved over 
like the half of a fruit, above thin clouds that looked 
like women’s veils. 

“We came to a little, desolate house, closed in by 
thick bushes, and entered it, falling behind the car¬ 
avan for some adventure in the noon-day heat. 

“It was there that I spoke to her of love. I loved 
her in all ways, Madonna—as the child, as a woman. 
I loved the thin neck of the young girl, the large, 
smiling eyes of the child, her quick movements, Ma¬ 
donna, like those of a bird on the twigs of a tree. 

“But she only laughed at me. She did not know, 
Madonna. I longed for her to show some sign, or 
make some promise, for all that I desired was to 
marry her in proper time, say when she should be 
eighteen. (Why had I need of haste, considering 
I was born to live forever? There is no colony 
where the damned can die!) Yet her laugh mad¬ 
dened me. A man is not reasonable when he loves. 

“And as I watched her while she stood across from 
me in the old house, beyond the buzzing flies that 
floated between us, I said an unworthy thing, which 
drove the laughter from her eyes. I said: ‘If you 
would love me, I would care for you in all ways, and 
you would never again jump through the hoop of 
fire.’ 

“I should not have said this, for it was her secret. 
The Fuego was afraid of the fire, so afraid that 
the fear never left her mind. It is a terrible thing 
to do what the little Fuego could do, and to be afraid 
each time! And I had been the first to know this 
secret, Madonna, and that was why I first loved her, 


FUEGO 


93 


watching her from the gate after I came to this 
circus. 

“It was in truth with astonishment that I saw 
her do this thing. There were but two spaces in the 
hoop that did not take fire, and here, with most 
ingenious art, she must catch the ring or be burned. 
The spaces were of metal, colored like the wood, 
and on them we put a liquid which prevents the 
flame. This liquid, likewise, was put all about the 
hem of her skirt, for the skirt truly touched the 
ring as she jumped through. These small duties 
I did for her, each night, soaking the skirt in the fluid 
to just the proper length, and improving the hoop 
in accordance with the growth of her skill. Also I 
would wait by the ring to catch and lift her from 
the horse, for she was always very weak, and this 
encouraged her. Such services she had not known 
before I came to the circus, and it is not surprising 
that she put some trust in me, even though she would 
not love me. 

“Therefore I should not have spoken this thing. 
Why should she not fear? It was only the wife of 
Brutus who, without fear, died from fire. And it 
was from a great conviction of love that the wife 
of Brutus did that, Madonna; so to have my little 
one laugh again, I made games in the deserted house, 
and caught bees for her, until it was late in the day 
and we must return to the road.” 

The clown paused, as though he were lost in mem¬ 
ory; and as the woman at his side listened for his 
voice, the sound of a twig, snapped by one of the 
plodding travellers before them, came through the 
mist as though from far away. 

“The sand grew difficult, Madonna, so I took her 


9 4 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


upon mj shoulder, which made slow walking; and 
when we overtook the circus, we found that they had 
reached the sea. We encamped there for the night, 
before going into the next town on the shore. All 
were rejoiced to have reached the sea, just across 
from which lay America; and the old man was in 
tears. He stroked La Fuego on the back, and 
pointed across the waves, and made much of her; 
for he is very old, from having too many wives, and 
shows his emotions readily. 

“While the sun was going down, I sat with La 
Fuego on the sand, and she was very happy at the 
sight of the ocean, which she loved. She had for¬ 
gotten the little house and the hot sun, and was 
again my little child, and lay against my shoulder, 
watching the sea. 

“She said to me: ‘It is enough water to put out all 
the fire in the world,’ and with these words she 
sighed, Madonna, and fell to sleep. I would not let 
the old man waken her, and the whole circus, sitting 
about fires on the sand, sang the old songs of 
Spain until the embers died; and La Fuego slept in 
my arms the whole night. 

“And holding her so, through the long hours, I 
thought of my love for her, and of how I could make 
her love me, and, as very unhappy people will, I be¬ 
gan to tell myself stories, Madonna. If she should be 
in danger of her life, and I should save her, with a 
crowd of people to see, how could she not love me? 
And I pictured to myself, with a kind of pleasure, 
the terrible sight if she should catch fire in leaping 
through the hoop. 

“I knew that I could save her. I knew each move¬ 
ment that she made, and if the flame ever caught 


FUEGO 


95 


her dress, I knew how I could run, in one instant, and 
throw her from the horse, and roll her in the dirt 
and put out the flames, so that no spark would have 
touched her body. That is why my soul is damned, 
Madonna, for sitting there in the night I began to 
hope she would catch on fire. And my mind ran with 
that hope as a drunken man runs from the Virgin to 
the devil.” 

The woman and the clown were at a turn in the 
narrow road, and down the steep hillside the woman 
saw the dark figure of the old man, whom the priest 
was supporting by his arm across an impeding stone. 

“The next day we went into the seaport, and 
performed as under gala circumstances. Ah, those 
who live by the sea can behave as though they were 
thirsty! A Spanish flag was brought from the town 
and flew above the tent, against the bright blue of 
the sea and of the sky. 

“Our fame spread, and from a traveller we heard 
that we might be called to Bilbao, and with great 
hope we went from village to village and even to 
many towns. 

“But the wicked picture that I had made to my¬ 
self did not leave my mind. It was always with me, 
and each time from the gateway I would watch to 
see the flame ignite her silver dress. Madonna, will 
you be still incredulous when I say that my soul is 
damned forever? I became impatient because it did 
not happen. 

“One night the crowd cried out in approval, and 
as she slid down into my arms she laughed with 
pleasure. It seemed as though she again were laugh¬ 
ing at my love, Madonna. I struck my breast be- 


96 TERASSA OF SPAIN 

cause it had not been given me to save her life before 
that crowd. 

“And, at last, the devil took me completely.” 

The fog had closed about them more thickly, and 
in it ahead the last of the straggling circus people 
disappeared. 

“Again for many weeks we went into the low 
country, as now all such towns knew of La Fuego, 
and were waiting for her. I caught small toads that 
jumped before us in the path, and let them spring 
from my hand, because this amused her, Madonna. 
Yet my soul was running—as a man runs down hill, 
because he cannot stop himself. 

“I was not afraid. I knew the movements of the 
horse. I knew the weight of her body, the quick 
action of fire, the nature of dirt, and the arts of 
running, of tumbling, and of the trapeze, which 
teaches how to seize, balance, and dispose, without 
harm, the body of another. 

“In the last town but this, Madonna, I prepared 
her for the performance. I dressed the horse, and 
when she had put on her stockings, I myself pow¬ 
dered the soles of the feet, for this is an important 
point in standing upon a horse. I put the fluid on 
the metal parts of the hoop, but—while she closed 
her eyes from the distasteful smell of it—I poured 
oil upon the rim of her dress. 

“We led the horse up to the gate, and waited 
back of it. It was here, every night, Madonna, that 
my fingers quivered to snatch her to me and hold 
her on my heart, away from the fire that frightened 
her, The Parrot Woman ran in past us, with all 
her little birds twittering under her costume, and 


FUEGO 


97 


La Fuego sprang onto her horse, and I handed her 
the candle, and she rode out into the ring. 

“Even then, I was not afraid. I saw the horse 
trot around the circle, and the hoop, bright yellow, 
dance up into the air while the people clapped. 

“I was not afraid, even when she sprang through 
the hoop, and the yellow flame touched her dress and 
leaped around it. I ran toward the horse and 
jumped at her, and, tying the burning skirt with 
my arms, threw her down upon her back, and rolled 
her over in the sawdust, and then tore away the hot 
cloth with my hands. A terrible sound was coming 
from the people, yet my heart was glad. I had seen 
her eyes as I dragged her from the horse, and the 
fear in them was a horrible thing; but feeling my 
arms about her, she knew that she was safe, and she 
laughed, Madonna. 

“She was there, in my arms, under the horse. A 
spark that had caught in her bodice, between her 
breasts, I crushed out with my cheek. A great cry 
of joy was all about. I had been right. No flame 
had touched her. But as I lifted my head from her 
breast to look at her, she read my face, and gazing 
up into my eyes, she saw deep into them, and she 
knew what I had done. And her heart stopped, Ma¬ 
donna.” 

They were standing under the drooping acacias 
by the inn. With the cold rain the hour of the blos¬ 
soms had begun, and here and there the slender white 
clusters lay scattered. 

The woman spoke in a low voice. 

“Let me see your hands,” she whispered. 

Unclosing the fingers, he quietly placed them in 
hers, and she lowered her head above them. Across 


98 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


the palms were streaks of angry red and pitiful 
swollen white. No oil, no water, had washed off the 
dreadful stains of black and of brown. In the fine 
rain, great drops fell down upon the hands. For the 
second time in her life the American woman was weep¬ 
ing. 

His voice spoke gravely. “Why should Madonna 
weep for me? I am like the insane, who do not feel 
pain. Or, perhaps, unlike the insane, for I enjoy it.” 

She gently put away his hands, and turned from 
him. 

His voice came quietly over her shoulder, as it had 
come from the mist before the chapel. 

“It is a strange boon for a soul already damned— 
that it should receive confession to the Madonna. 
Will she send one more gift into hell?” 

Mutely she looked at him. 

“I am returning to her grave until the time we 
must perform. Would the Madonna come there 
when it is dark, and pray with me for her soul?” 

“And for yours,” she said. “I will come.” 

The yellow torches were flaring around the tent 
in the valley, and the stars were fighting their way 
through dispersing clouds, when the American 
woman left the inn and slipped away under the drip¬ 
ping acacias. 

By the torches, the stars, and the purple depths 
of sky that spread above the mountain like a cloak, 
her mind was blurred; and as she ran stumbling 
along the path, her vision of terrifying love was full 
of whirling colour, of blackness, and of yellow fire. 
Her flesh quivered with a longing to take those hands 
and tremblingly close them. 


FUEGO 


99 


But when she came to the little garden of graves, 
it was, as she had promised him, for two souls that 
she had to pray. His body lay across the mound 
of earth like that of one who has been crucified; but 
near one of his outstretched hands lay something 
white, like a small stick in the dirt. With a little 
hurt sound she picked it up, and she did not have 
to question how he died. The red mouth of the 
clown had sucked in the flame of the candle. 


IV 


SIMPATICA 

O LD ROSA laid by her lacework with a sigh 
as gray and wavering as the vine-leaf shadows 
that mottled her face. 

“Shall you lean forever on a bridge, waiting to see 
a drop of water that was thrown overboard from 
Gibraltar 

Her posture was more humble than her words, for 
she sat on the doorsill of her house; but Padre Pedro 
could not have despised it, for in order to sit beside 
her he must have had to humble himself more, being 
tall, and to extend himself farther in and out of the 
house, being circular. 

“Your words,” said he, “are as roundabout as 
your lace, and your lace as the grapevine, whereas I 
said to you, as simply as I could: 6 1 hope Margarita 
will come back.’ And I say it again. I hoped so the 
night she ran away, and I intend to hope so to¬ 
morrow, and the day after that, and every following 
day till she does come back.” 

“However,” said Old Rosa, “I do not think she 
will come back.” 

“So thought his father of the prodigal son,” said 
the padre. 

“She was nobody’s son,” said Rosa. “She was 
the niece of Somebody himself. She was bad on pur¬ 
pose, and she will not come back.” 

100 


SIMPATICA 


101 


“Even if you spoke the truth,” said the padre, 
“there might still be hope left in the world.” 

“Hope on,” said Rosa. “But I shall presently see 
you give her house, and her greenhouse, and her 
chances, and her silly-looking locust tree to some¬ 
body else.” 

“So you shall,” said the padre, “if anybody else 
deserves them in her absence. But she shall have 
them again when she comes back, and you shall kiss 
her, too, if I have to force you into it.” 

“Fortunately, she will not come back,” said Rosa. 

“Come, be charitable,” said the padre. 

“I was charitable the first day of the festival, and 
commanded that hag Ines to make me some jelly. 
Well, there was a needle in it.” 

“What?” cried the padre. “If you speak truth¬ 
fully, I shall give her some sound advice.” 

“Then,” said Rosa, “you would give a match to 
a woman who chews tobacco.” 

“Now, now,” said the padre; “I do not believe she 
chews tobacco, and the needle may have been an 
accident.” 

“She meant it for one, and a bad one,” answered 
Rosa. 

They talked in the hour when no one should be 
abroad. Fools and foreigners sometimes are, but 
the sun can penetrate even them. This hour is the 
double one between twelve and two, when birds are hot 
in their feathers, and swimmers in their skins. The 
padre often spent it with Old Rosa, as one might 
sit with the devil and find his company cooling. To¬ 
day they talked of how Margarita had run away, and 
of the wicked old magician who had made her do it; 
of how Tito, the padre’s thirtieth and youngest 


102 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


orphan, had disappeared into the mountains, and of 
his return; and of the first Wine Festival itself, 
which would be over to-morrow, and whose gay but 
dying sounds floated down to them now from the 
market place, along the drooping hillside of Terassa. 

Off on the winding road, toward Barcelona, the 
shimmering gold showed a tinge of yellow, proclaim¬ 
ing risen dust and the approach of a foolhardy trav¬ 
eller. 

“You will say it is Margarita,” said Old Rosa, 
“but I know that it is not.” 

“You cannot tell from a mile away,” said the 
padre. 

“I can,” said Rosa. 

Yet it was some woman. 

She could not, when they had spoken, have been 
so far off as a whole mile, for the cloud, in their 
nearer vision, seemed a mere puff—yet one sufficient 
cruelly to close in her person. Out of it, forth or 
back with each alternating stride, a filtered shadow 
bumped like that of a great square package, which 
it proved to be as she reached them. 

Both had risen; but, for all their knowledge of 
the road, her plight of dust and exhaustion so held 
them that neither spoke, and she addressed them 
first, leaning heavily against the door frame. 

“ Salud , monsieur,” she said. “Salted, ma femme. 
Is that Terassa, at the top of the hill?” 

“It is,” said the padre; “but you shall not go 
there now, for the highway is very steep, and you 
are dangerously tired. This is not my house, but 
it is my friend’s. *Set your bundle on the floor, and 
yourself upon this chair.” 


SIMPATICA 


103 


He drew the woman and the chair toward each 
other, while Rosa hurried wine into a cup. 

“Drink,” she commanded, and the woman drank, 
sipping at first, then greedily, while Rosa unwound 
her cheap, burning mantilla. 

“Black!” she exclaimed. “Could you not have 
worn white to walk the equator? But you were bent 
on death, anyway!” 

“I thank you,” said the woman, with a long sigh 
of relief. 

The wine had brought a faint life to her pallid 
face, and, as she gained her breath, the padre spoke 
cheerfully. 

“I note you are a foreigner, my friend.” 

“You are right, monsieur,” she answered. “But 
do I not pronounce your language intelligently ?” 

“With intelligence and with nicety,” said the 
padre. “Still, and in spite of your ‘monsieur, 5 I 
think you are Italian, for your V is less soft than 
ours. On the other hand, it does not roll all the 
way to Russia, so I judge you are Neapolitan.” 

“You are almost right, 55 she answered, “and I 
speak that dialect. By birth, monsieur, I am a 
Nizzard. But my father removed to Napoli, and 
from French I became Italian. The tongues are 
half brothers, and as for your Spanish, it is to the 
Italian a full and a pretty sister. 55 

Her voice was unsteady, but she spoke with much 
courtesy, and the padre, in studying her features, 
did not notice the twitching of her hands. 

“Your speech is generous,” he replied, “for your 
own two tongues are attractive. What can Terassa 
do for you in return?” 


104* 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


“Perhaps all,” she replied eagerly. “Monsieur, 
you are having festival, are you not?” 

“We are,” said the padre, “though the last day 
is to-morrow.” 

“And is it true, monsieur, that a magician, who 
had his stand here, has abandoned it and run away ? 
I heard as much in several towns.” 

“It is true,” said the padre, “and it was I who 
made him run. What might your interest in him 
be?” 

“Nothing in him,” she answered, “but much in his 
failure. I came in hopes that I might be allowed to 
take his stand, and earn a little money. I am in sore 
need of it, monsieur, for I have been very unfortun¬ 
ate.” 

“We need no magicians here!” cried Rosa sharply. 
“One did harm enough. We have no need of you!” 

“She addressed me,” said the padre. “May I 
answer her? My friend, Rosa’s fear has some excuse, 
for the old man’s revenge upon me was to carry off 
with him one of our fairest daughters, and we 
hoped it was her return when we descried you. 
Please tell me of your misfortunes.” 

“Ah, monsieur,” said the woman, “they are brief 
and easy to tell, if they have been long and hard 
to endure. Until lately, monsieur, I was a circus 
woman. My troupe, in southern France, was becom¬ 
ing prosperous and well known, when all at once we 
lost our chief attraction—indeed, no less than the 
wonderful Spanish girl, ‘Fuego’. Then, as though 
three-handed luck were out, our clown died. And 
truly, final calamity came upon us as we tried to 
struggle through the Pyrenees, for we raised the tent 
for shelter on a cold night, and a mountain storm 


SIMPATICA 


105 


tore it in shreds. So we disbanded into another 
circus, and, thankful as we were, to me this proved 
disastrous.” 

4 ‘And what was this fourth misfortune?” asked the 
padre. 

“Ah, monsieur,” she said, a flush spreading over 
her face, “as I ask harbour in your town, it is but 
just to tell you. Monsieur, I was discharged from 
the circus.” 

“I thought as much,” said Rosa. 

“If you think at all,” said the padre, “think that 
this woman is in your house, and that if she were 
not, it would be your duty to bring her in. My 
friend, judging from your eyes, I should think your 
performance must be bright and attractive. May I 
ask, then, why you were discharged?” 

Again colour swept her face. 

“From your own eyes, monsieur, I think your 
thoughts are gentle. I will tell you. You can fancy 
that we had loved our Fuego and our clown, mon¬ 
sieur. But can you fancy that we loved our old 
gray tent? And it was with hearts near stopped 
from grief and anxiety that we looked upon our 
future. You can think, monsieur, that we entered 
the new circus with some exhilaration. When one 
sheds a burden, monsieur, one will talk, and my own 
talk was too liberal.” 

Rosa started to speak, but he raised his hand. 
“In what particular, my friend?” 

“Ah, monsieur, I spoke too far about my married 
life. My old friends liked me, I am certain; but the 
new ones looked, perhaps, for faults. And they 
found me boastful of the husband I had had. I told 
how handsome he had been, and that he was younger 


106 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


than myself. I told of his kindness, and that we 
had never had a quarrel. I even told this little/ 
thing, monsieur—how he had cut his finger with a 
knife, and how I tended it so well that the scar disap¬ 
peared, and he was sorry for that, on my account.” 

“You must have loved each other dutifully,” said 
the padre. 

She hastened on: “But most of all I talked of our 
wedding in a little church at Nice, and how he had 
taken me all that costly way from Naples, that it 
might be in the town of my birth.” 

“I can see no harm in boasting of that,” said 
the padre. “Of course, I am ignorant of the busi¬ 
ness world, for I live in this little town, and have 
no very learned friend save God; but I should think 
your marriage need not have concerned them, unless 
from interest.” 

For the third time, and more deeply, her face 
burned. 

“Let my hands tell you what I mean, monsieur,” 
she said, and extended them before him, white, 
slender, unadorned. 

“I knew it!” cried Rosa. “I saw them when she 
began!” 

“Hush, hush!” returned the padre, and he took 
the nervous fingers in his own. “My child, Rosa 
Queranza has a gentle heart. We are sorry that 
you are not a pure woman, but you seem sorry, too, 
and that ends the matter. Tell us of your perform¬ 
ance, and what you have in your package. Has it 
things to sell?” 

“Marfa forbid!” she cried, turning white again. 
“I would sell myself rather. Monsieur, my package 
holds my livelihood.” 


SIMPATICA 


107 


“But what is that, my child? I must know when 
I say you may have the magician’s place, for the 
little shop is in my authority.” 

“Forgive me,” she answered. “I spoke from sen¬ 
timent, but I fear I left my manners by the roadside, 
somewhere between here and Ruby.” 

“You walked from Ruby?” demanded Rosa. And 
the padre cried: “My friend, I myself would doubt 
you if I did not see honesty in your face.” 

“There is little enough in her hair,” snapped Rosa. 
“Did you try to paint a picture on it? The back 
and front are yellow, with the middle part left 
brown.” 

“I meant it,” said the padre, “when I said Rosa’s 
heart was gentle, but for inquisitiveness she is a 
glutton. You will placate her if you will describe 
your bundle.” 

“It is my cage of birds,” she answered. “It looks 
very big, because my performing clothes are wrapped 
about the cage. I am a Parrot Woman, monsieur, 
and you will find my performance innocent.” 

“I am sure of it,” said the padre. “May I look 
at your birds?” He reached his hand toward the 
package, but she caught it back with a frightened 
cry. Her words were terrified and quick. “Forgive 
me again, monsieur! Indeed, I would rather you 
looked at them than I! I am afraid to see! Mon¬ 
sieur, in Ruby I was penniless, and I did not know 
how long the walk would be. Will you think me a 
fiend, monsieur? When I could come no farther, I 
ate the most of their seed, and because I could not 
swallow it, I took a little of their water. Oh, mon¬ 
sieur, you have seen autumn leaves, but do you know 


108 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


natural history? One died of cold, but if they have 
died of heat, will they be brown?” 

The padre sprang to catch her, but Rosa was 
swift, and had her around the stomach, bearing her 
to the bed. 

“Am I a nightmare, that you feared to ask food 
in my house? Put milk in a bowl, and set it outside 
a minute. Did you choose to starve, failing to die 
in the sun?” She addressed the woman, and the 
padre, and the woman, her head ticking between the 
bed curtains like the pendulum of a clock, and, to the 
accompaniment, stripped her naked, hurling her gar¬ 
ments one by one beneath the bed. “What a breast 
you have! Why is your hair not as pure? Bring 
my lace nightdress—the larger chest, under my 
mother’s workbox, in a paper. If you were so poor, 
how have you kept so clean—was it the Atlantic 
you walked across? Put wine in the milk, out of 
the third bottle. I thought your shoes were tight 
till I saw your feet. I thank you, padre, if you do 
swoon from my saying it. How does lace feel on 
your skin? Coarse, I judge, looking at the two of 
you. Give me the bowl. Turn over. Drink it, and 
stop twitching your hands.” 

As the talk and the twitching died away, the padre 
came to the bedside. 

“You need not fret about your little birds, my 
friend. I have looked, and they are all alive. How 
many you have! They are now in the milk cellar, 
where it is quite cool. I gave them barley soaked 
in water, and there is bird seed in plenty up in 
Terassa. Now, if this news makes you strong 
enough to speak, tell me this: Will you be able to 
perform to-night?” 


SIMPATICA 


109 


“I must, and such news would make me able,” she 
replied, gazing up into his face. “But, monsieur, I 
would have to pay for the stand from the receipts. 
Would you be hard with me if there were not 
enough ?” 

“I believe not,” said the padre, smiling. “The fee 
is a tame one, and would not hurt even a priest. 
Tell me this also: Could you give your performance 
in the open?” 

“With birds, monsieur? I assure you, it would 
be more attractive.” 

“Then it shall be on the green,” he said, “and 
you shall have the shop to prepare in. Does it need 
preparation of its own?” 

“If I could, I would put up a sign, monsieur— 
that is all.” 

“My school days are long past,” said the padre, 
“but I think I can print a sign. To pay me for my 
trouble, will you accept the only grave courtesy in 
my power? Madame, will you sup with me at my 
house at six o’clock?” 

Her eyes seemed to grow larger as they gazed up 
into his. 

“Monsieur, I am not a polite woman, for no one 
has asked me to supper before. Will you think me 
ignorant if I only say I am grateful?” 

“Talk no more now, but rest instead,” said the 
padre, and he walked off. But he stopped in the 
doorway. “My child, forget my manners, for I 
myself forgot one of them. What is your name?” 

“La Femme aujc Paroquets ” she murmured, and 
fell asleep. 

The padre aroused curiosity through the after- 


110 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


noon, for he was usually fortunate enough to get 
some rest after having been with Old Rosa. To-day 
he was seen to talk with the musicians at the inn, and 
later, after examining the shop where the magician’s 
booth had been, he sent broadcast for chairs to be 
stood on the village green. Later still, Old Rosa 
herself was observed climbing up the highway with 
an enormous package, and entering the shop by 
means of a key which the padre must have allowed 
her. She emerged without the package, and locked 
the door with a great click. Finally the padre came 
with a paper nearly as tall as himself, and, with 
gum out of a pail, pasted it on the door. It was 
as black and white as a warning against thieves, and 
said: 

LA FEMME AUX PAROQUETS 
ON THE GREEN, AFTER SUPPER 

TICKETS MUST BE BOUGHT, AND THE PADRE 
WILE HAVE THEM READY AN HOUR BEFORE 
SUPPERTIME, AT HIS HOME IN THE CHASM 
ROAD. 

When the woman came to his house, it was with 
both hands that he greeted her, and with white show¬ 
ing from his face, too, for he was of the generation 
that preached a broad smile to him who should stand 
on a doorsill. 

“I cannot offer game,” he said, “but I have 
hunted something for you—perhaps an example of 
my salad. It is nearly always good, and the flattery 
is to you if I say that to-day I am inspired I” 

Over her poor dress she wore a drooping cloak of 


SIMPATTCA 


111 


pink, and her eyes were as glittering as the brilliants 
that she had put in her hair. And as hard, he 
thought, above the lines creasing to the corners of 
her mouth; but the ripple of her cloak, as she 
dropped it backward onto a chair, gave to his room 
as pretty and as worldly an inflection as it had 
known since the famous widow from Castile had 
brought to it her votive offering of a jewelled censer. 

“ Salad1** he said, raising two glasses. “Salad y 
Pesetas! How appropriate to you is our native 
toast!” 

She curtsied as deep as a Dutchwoman. “And to 
you, Salad , Salad , Salad only! For the riches, if 
they reached you they would bounce off; or, if they 
clung, they would slide down your outside!” 

“But not so, I hope, a salad,” he replied, and led 
her to the table. “For the making, we need five 
more men, as you shall hear; but you and I also 
participate, for I have prepared the vegetable, and 
you, it appears, contribute it, for you are to sleep 
in Margarita’s house while you visit us, and I 
fetched this but now from her greenhouse.” 

“But no!” she cried, and lifted a hand in denial; 
but he frowned it down. 

“A sad look is a poor legume. There, to please 
you I have managed a French word! We have not 
eaten yet, and a brave smile lends grace to a hungry 
stomach.” As though struggling with tears, she 
laughed for him. 

“For the dressing, the proverb demands as fol¬ 
lows: A spenthrift for the oil; a miser for the vine¬ 
gar; a merchant for the salt; a judge for the pep¬ 
per; and—a madman to stir. But though you, ma- 
dame, could entertain them, I could not feed them, 


112 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


so we will call them the five fingers of my hand—my 
right hand, for the left must hold the spoon. Alas, 
I fear I am most happy as a spendthrift and a 
madman, for I have been known to spend oil like a 
foolish virgin, or to break the young leaves with my 
stirring!” 

“But no, but no!” she cried again in French. 
“For you pour the oil on thirsty waters, and the 
leaves cannot taste till they are crushed.” 

“You have wit,” said the padre, handing her the 
bowl. 

“Within your gates I am a stranger,” she an¬ 
swered, receiving it; and with raised glass, and 
graceful movements of her fork, she partook of its 
provender. From the tomato she perhaps achieved 
some special favour, for she had got a faint colour 
from somewhere. 

“But the dressing?” asked the padre, with anxiety. 

“Your five men? Ah, monsieur, I will say that 
you are dexterous, and ply the word in its original 
meaning! You observe, monsieur, that I understand 
one word of Latin. Dare a widow offer her mite to 
a priest?” 

“He is a priest at table,” said the padre, “as he 
is in the box at church. And, speaking of that, there 
is one comfort, my child, that can cross an empty 
bowl.” 

But she peered into it with a rueful look, and 
cried as though to mislead him: 

“Your five guests! What would they have had?” 

“Your company,” he answered, smiling. 

“From you, monsieur, they would have had more.” 

“My love, perhaps,” he answered. “In their 


SIMPATICA 


113 


absence you should take it all. Widow or not, my 
child, are you a good Catholic ?” 

She let her eyes rest on his face, and the gaiety 
seeped out of them, along with the colour from her 
cheeks. 

“I am not good at all,” she said deliberately. 

His looks were grave, yet he smiled. 

“You exaggerate, my dear, which I suppose is 
natural to show-folks. But will you not tell me 
of your history?” 

“And wound you?” she cried. “It has been one 
of vanity and deception, and I have capped it by 
deceiving you!” Leaning forward, she wept with the 
passion of a heart taxed to breaking. 

“If you have deceived me, it is easy to undeceive,” 
said Padre Pedro gently. 

“Ah, monsieur, my fault has been vanity, and the 
sin from it, lies.” 

“I do not understand,” said the padre simply. 

“No wonder, monsieur! I will be truthful now. 
Monsieur, with sanction or without it, in a chancel 
or a couch, monsieur, I have never had a husband. 
Because I was vain, I have lied.” 

“And what you let us think-” 

“A lie, like the rest of me. But for that one, was 
there not a little excuse? In money, I am honest, 
and I had to tell you I had been discharged. Then 
would my story have been likely? Would you have 
believed me if I had claimed my innocence?” 

“I would,” said the padre. 

“Would Rosa? And I was so afraid of her, 
monsieur! Lies teach one to be afraid. And I have 
told lies, monsieur, because I was wicked enough to 
be ashamed that no one ever asked me in marriage. 



114 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


When I was young, monsieur, I longed for marriage, 
and that is sometimes hard in my profession, where 
people are poor and purity expensive. I was vain, 
and I could not bear to think that when I should 
be as old as I am to-night I must look my sisters in 
the eyes and say: ‘I am not maculate. 5 55 

“How many years have you, my child? 55 

She flushed. “I am old, monsieur. 55 

“But the years—how many?” 

“I am twenty-six, monsieur.” 

“Were you ill-favoured?” 

Her colour deepened. “No worse, monsieur, than 
I am now.” 

“I only asked, my child, thinking you might have 
been ill-favoured then.” 

A little pleasure touched her weary eyes. “I have 
confessed to you, monsieur. I have said. 55 

“I note from having known you,” said the padre, 
thoughtful again, “that marriage is not everything 
in life.” 

“Indeed, monsieur,” she returned, “I have some¬ 
times wondered. I truly think I know a little of the 
world, for I have been as far as Paris, where I was 
for two nights in the ballet. I had no adventure 
at Paris, but I had a little happiness. A ballet 
woman said to me, as she helped me on with my 
tights, for I was very stupid, monsieur: ‘I do not 
believe your tale that you have not been loved. 5 I 
am sure she meant the words to be unkind, but to a 
poor travelling woman, whose wealth lay in a parcel 
of parrots, they sounded sweet. Can you believe me, 
monsieur? And they put my wicked story in my 
head.” 


SIMPATICA 


115 


“And that,” said the padre, looking at her 
strangely, “has been your only wickedness?” 

“Save for my wicked thoughts it has, monsieur.” 

The padre sat looking into her face for a long 
time before he said: “What a wicked, wicked woman 
you have been!” And she sat looking back at him 
for a long time before her eyes answered the smile 
that had crept into his. 

While the mist gathered in the chasm, and people 
in the market place, two torches flared on the green. 
When the padre came, he overheard rumours to the 
effect that his thirty little boys must have stolen 
their tickets, for they were early, and sat in the 
nearest rows. 

“Bast a!” he thundered, very loud. “Their 
tickets are all paid for, out of my own pocket; and 
if I did give them out first, are grown folk not 
tall enough to see over their heads?” 

And there was a humiliated silence. A light shone 
from the shop, and there was considerable passing 
by, with innocent-looking looks toward the Iwin- 
dows; but this quickly ceased when the musicians 
crossed over from the inn, and took up a position 
beyond the torches, instead of under the trees, where 
they had played the whole week for the dancing. 
When all were seated, the padre sought his place on 
a chair in the beginning of the aisle. He lifted his 
finger in signal, and the ra- ta-ta, uvn-tsL-ta thralled 
the whole faculties of the audience until a near-by 
presence brought its eyes, in the successive impulse 
of sheep, across the narrow street. As soon as they 
know that she was swaying, to the music, on the step 
of the shop, she was in the street, and still nearer. 


116 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


There were spangled pinions in her kettle-coloured 
hair, and the flaring light caught and glittered on 
them as she ran into the ring. A dull, undulating 
robe fell from her shoulders to her ankles, wavering, 
creasing, swaying, as if it were alive. Halting, she 
swirled it from her shoulders, inside out, and held 
it high before her for the audience to see. The padre 
and his people thrilled at the sudden colour. Inside, 
the cloak was as purple as his stole that he was 
allowed to wear in Holy Week, and spotted, up and 
down, from corner to corner, with living, fluttering 
parrots, clinging like dying moths to the shaking 
fabric, silent and desperate in their aborted knowl¬ 
edge. ' Their owner gave a sharp cry, and in one 
body they rose from their purple background, 
thrashing in the air over her, flashing their wings 
in a whirl of green with bits of yellow from the tails 
of parakeets and of rose from the heads of love 
birds, and settled on her shoulders, her head, her 
arms, her heaving breasts, screaming, twittering, 
nestling in her hair, kissing her lips. 

Dazzled, dazed, the padre cried involuntarily to 
himself: “I should like to have it in a picture!” 
And then, like the unforewarned speaking of the 
gods, the birds had lifted again, and through the 
mass of tumultuous wings he saw the woman’s white 
face, setting its lips to give her sharp cry again. 
While its vibration still trailed in his ears, the par¬ 
rots and their mistress had vanished from the ring, 
with a long sigh floating after them. 

The musicians, staring after her, forgot to play, 
and the people sat and stood in silence till she came 
again. She now crossed the street slowly, her rose- 
and-purple cloak across her arm, and carrying the 


SIMPATICA 117 

great cage. This she set down on the green, and, 
facing them, she said: 

“You shall see that they love each other. Ba- 
bette!” 

And from a small hole in the top flew a rose-headed 
love bird, circling and coming to rest on her ex¬ 
tended finger. With her free hand she swathed the 
cloak about the cage. 

“Go to my hair, Babette!” And Babette flew and 
clung to the back of her head. “Now sit on the dark 
spot, Babette!” And it hopped up between her 
spangled pinions. 

She lifted the cloak again. 

“Oh, Beppo!” she called sorrowfully. “Your 
mate is lost. Beppo, where is Babette? Beppo, 
Beppo, find her!” And Beppo struggled from the 
cage, and, in a swift, fluttering spiral round her 
body, flew to his mate on her head. She spoke to 
the audience again: “You shall see that they know 
who they are.” And there came from her lips in 
quick syllables, with pauses measured to their flight 
through the little hole, the countless succession of 
their names—some French, the rest Italian, save 
one, which, in a tone of caressing tenderness, with 
a French J that only strove to be harsh, she called 
“ J ohnnie.” 

“Le pamrre!” she said aside, to the audience, as 
the vivid living darts shot here, there, in every direc¬ 
tion above their heads. “He has no mate! May he 
have a holiday? Rest there, Johnnie!” And she 
set him in her bosom. As the rest fell in a swarm at 
her feet, she turned to the padre. “Monsieur, e 
mios amicos , I will attempt our prettiest trick. It 
is to spell for you the name of your town—but there 


118 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


are difficulties. Be gentle if we fail, for they strive 
hard, and it hurts me to be cross with them. It is a 
word of fair length, but, first of all, they can rarely 
make a great T. They will forever think I want a 
crucifix, for they learned that symbol first.” 

“By all means, let them make it!” said the padre. 
“If anything could improve our pretty name, that 
is it!” 

“I thank you,” she said, smiling. “Though I can 
get it if I scold them. There is but one more trouble: 
‘S’ is quite hard at best, and a double letter means 
a struggle for them, for, receiving an order over 
again, they think they have done wrong, and become 
frightened.” 

“Let us have Terassa with one S,” said the padre. 
“This is a night of pleasure, and we will risk the in¬ 
fluence on the little boys.” 

“You are generous,” she smiled, “but we will see.” 

She stretched her cloak on the turf, with its purple 
downward, and its soft, pink peony hue shimmering 
faintly in the torchlight. 

Her face was more serious, her eyes intent upon 
her charge, as though she had forgotten the onlook¬ 
ers, and her sound the sharpest she had given. Like 
a diminutive army in muster, the green spots picked 
their way about on the field of the cloak. Her cries 
came at quick intervals, growing more strange, less 
human, seeming themselves to hold a birdlike quality; 
and abruptly, as from the sweep of a green brush, 
the crucifix glowed on the fabric. A murmur wan¬ 
dered among the people. Her voice grew loud to 
cover it, and the timbers of the cross broke and fell 
into the smaller bars of the letter E. The murmur 
swelled, her tones rose with it, and in response to 


SIMPATICA 


119 


the unhuman voice R came, and then A, whose hard 
strokes, at a shrill whistle, curved and crept into a 
crawling S. 

She paused for some time before her next com¬ 
mand. Her face had altered, with the tight-set 
lips intensified and the eyes riveted toward them. 
When the cry came, it rang clear and metallic in the 
silence. The line began to break, stopped, wavered. 
A few birds fluttered from the cloak and hung 
thrashing, as though on strings, above it. She made 
a passionate sound, stamping her foot, and they 
dropped. Her command came again, clear, but full 
of anger now, and the line started in motion like a 
serpent, slow, then quick, from the nose of the letter 
downward, until S was upside down, then around 
and back as it had been. 

“Ah! Ah!” she cried joyously, and by instinct 
her exclamation sprang from everywhere in the audi¬ 
ence. “Mes cheries! Mes cheries!” And all its 
tenderness had returned to her voice. Again, she 
paused distinctly before commanding A again. The 
sound was half sweet, half harsh. There were a little 
hesitation, a little rustling of feathers, an iterated 
caress, the command once more, and A was again on 
the cloak. “ Voila /” she cried, and the whole letter, 
intact, walked toward the cage, crowding at the door 
as if a blotting paper had smudged it; and lifting 
the cloak from the grass to her shoulders, the woman 
came forward. 

“Mesdames et messieurs ” she said, “it has been 
sweet to see your faces from this pretty spot, know¬ 
ing that no curtain, with tassels to your side and 
dirty cloth to mine, would fall down between us. But 
will you not think these trees the walls of a theatre. 


120 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


and me a performer too stupid to amuse you further? 
I would gladly give you more stupidity, if my little 
birds were not already tired of it!” 

She ran to the cage, and with it to the street; but 
there she paused, as though the surrounding noise 
were too thick for her to push through, and turned 
back, lifting her hand. 

“Forgive me,” she said, “if we did not wave good¬ 
bye. That can be done gayly in a little flag, if you 
will not censure its colours. You understand, mes 
amis , that people decide the colouring of flags, 
whereas it was God thought out my little birds. Will 
you gently remember that their flag is no more of my 
nation, though I love them, than it is of yours, 
whether you do or not?” 

On the fan shape that she made of her cloak, they 
formed in a small, thick oblong, with the pink heads 
of the love birds squared, quivering, in the upper 
corner, from which the minute trembling of feathers 
fluctuated from rose colour into green, in rounded 
swellings that fled to the three other corners. Then 
the banner rose, and, fluttering over to the cage, fell 
down on it in tatters. 

She let them cluster there, and did not leave the 
green, for the living flag had brought forth cheers 
as loud and many as a yard of Spain or Italy could 
have done, and from emptied seats the people 
crowded round her. 

“Stand by! Stand by!” warned the padre, reach¬ 
ing her. 

Those nearest gazed at her with wide eyes, with 
others pushing from behind; and they saw the padre 
take her hand, with the special inclination of the 


SIMPATICA 


121 


head that he would bend toward a great lady, and 
words that he rarely bestowed anywhere. 

“Madame, you have honoured Terassa. As her 
sponsor, may I extend to you the thanks of a little 
town?” 

Leaving her hand in his, she bent her knees in a 
graceful movement, so that her limpid cloak crinkled 
in a half-moon on the grass. 

“Ah, monsieur,” she returned, “what poverty 
might have been had I not eaten your salad before 
my performance!” 

“I am told,” said he, “that the greatest of artists 
are discreet before performing, while afterward— 
well, let us hope not! But, madame, madame, what 
is your secret? How, and whence? Your birds have 
confused me. Can they be little people in feathers ?” 

Her eyes danced with pleasure. 

“Ah, my secret !” she cried. “My little, little 
secret! It is but a word—one pretty word, and one 
that I know you know!” 

“I do not follow,” he answered, shaking his head. 
“My child, how could I know your secret?” 

“Ah, think, think, monsieur!” she cried. “It is the 
keystone of all art! And it is a word you live by. 
You practised it to-day. Monsieur, what is it that 
you feel for me?” 

A slow smile came into his face. 

“I begin to understand,” he said. “My child, 
your words are pretty, and your heart is pretty, too, 
and you have much discernment.” 

They laughed, and in the sound, either from one 
or both of them, was a note of tenderness. 

“I am proud of my little birds,” she said; “but I 


122 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


become prouder that one of the church should admire 
their training.” 

“Indeed,” said the padre, “I am serious when I 
tell you that you could help me in the natural history 
lessons, my chief trial in teaching the little boys. 
They made Jose very saucy about Jonah’s whale, 
and as for Tito, he was so impressed by the picture 
of the orang-outang that he stole an unnatural one 
from the magician’s toy booth and ran away with it 
into the mountains, thinking himself an outlaw.” 

“Mio Dio!” cried the woman. “Le pauvre, le 
pcmvre! When I see him, will you let me call him 
nene mio?” 

The padre bowed. “It would delight him. But 
would he not detain you from some lesson, in San¬ 
skrit, say, to your little birds?” 

As she blushed and laughed, she felt a smaller hand 
than the padre’s upon her arm, and, turning, looked 
down upon Jose, who was in certain ways the padre’s 
baddest boy, and in a certain way his best, for he 
was tenderest-hearted. 

“Senorita,” he said, quite bold, but with one eye 
on the padre, “will you sell me one of the birds? 
The padre owes me nearly two pesetas, that he took 
away for something I did not mean to do.” 

She laid her quick fingers on his tight black hair. 

“So you would have one of my little birds? Ah, 
ragazzo malfacente! But can you hear Italian? It 
means ‘mischievous fellow,’ but it is spoken in love 
only, and there is no mischief in that! But my little 
bird! Would you have me part from him—and him 
from his brothers?” 

“Senora!” It was a soft voice at her other side, 
and she found herself looking into the wonderful eyes 


SIMPATICA 


123 


of Violeta, who was called the loveliest girl in 
Terassa. So great was her surprise that she could 
not answer. “Senora, the padre has told me of your 
misfortune, and my husband and I are very sorry, for 
we ourselves are quite fortunate. We are afraid to 
offer you a little money, for we would never hurt your 
feelings; but if you were willing to part with a few 
of your birds, we would buy some of the more costly 
—I suppose the ones with the pink heads. We fear 
from the padre’s grave looks that he could get but a 
little for the tickets; and as your troubles were un¬ 
just, it might be a long time before you found an¬ 
other situation. I think you could sell quite a 
number of the birds, for enough to keep you here at 
length, and perhaps learn gardening, or lacework. I 
myself could teach you the lace, or Rosa. She is 
very kind, and cleverer than I am. She taught me 
—in that, as in all things, my foster-mother.” 

Terassa’s visitor looked from her to her hus¬ 
band, who had bright yellow hair, and back again at 
Violeta. 

“What eyes!” she said at last. “What eyes! 
They are wild violets! Were you named for them? 
Did they whisper the word to your own mother when 
you were small? And your husband’s—they are 
as green as leaves! Which shall your own child 
gather—the blossom, or the bed it sleeps on? Ah, 
do not blush, my dear!” She passed a finger tip 
from her lips to the sweeping contour of Violeta’s 
cheek. “I have seen that light in a young girl’s 
face one other time/ She was less beautiful than 
you before and afterward, yet she was lovely when 
I looked at her! My child, your child will have a 
pretty soul.” 


124 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


Violeta tried to hide her eyes, but the padre took 
up her entreaty. 

“You are right, my friend; but so is she about 
your little birds. Will you not consider her sugges¬ 
tion? I thought it very intelligent as she made it. 
As to me, I could buy thirty, if your price is fairly 
moderate. That would be one each for my little 
boys, but I would make them keep the pairs un¬ 
separated, lest they should repine, and you need not 
fear for their gentleness—they have been taught 
kindness in that kingdom, if they are sometimes un¬ 
ruly toward human beings.” 

“Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh!” 

He had continued speaking, but the parrot 
woman did not hear his words, nor did any one else. 
The thirty were running, jumping, swarming around 
him, around the cage, around the woman. 

“Chis!” he cried loudly, holding up his hand. “The 
lady has not decided! Are you the savages of 
Northern America? Give her an opportunity! You 
may count hatched parrots, but you need not count 
them yours! She shall decide as slowly as she likes !” 

The riot faded, and he turned to her again— 
speaking quietly, and more as of an everyday mat¬ 
ter, for he saw that she was in deep thought, with 
bent head and a hand across her eyes, and he sus¬ 
pected tears beneath it. 

“The misdeeds of your predecessor, the magician, 
cost us a fine penny that had to come from money 
earned by the little boys in the poppy fields, so that 
they cannot have their new greenhouse; but your 
green things would make up to them in part, if what 
we have left is sufficient.” 

At last she took her hand away and looked at 


SIMPATICA 


125 


him. The eyes were dry, and, though her heart was 
also, she made her voice as gay as it was earnest. 

“Would they give real happiness to Terassa?” 

“They would, my daughter,” he answered, “and a 
loving sum to you—a sum, moreover, that would let 
you live in Margarita’s house as long, perhaps, as 
she is away; and if that time proved happily short, 
Terassa, though small, would prove larger than one 
house.” 

She looked at him with eyes full of appeal. 

“My husband and my children—would you have me 
sell them for a house?” 

“Though you are very old,” said the padre, smil- 
ing, “you are not too old to marry again.” 

“Ah, monsieur,” she answered, “even were there 
one who could look with serious eyes on my ridiculous 
hair, could I look with innocent ones at him while 
their vision flashed with memories that were—so 
green ?” 

“Well,” said the padre, smiling again, “there is 
time in Terassa, as well as a permanent church, so 
we need not hurry; but as we have four eyes, we can 
afford to keep one of them open. I cannot promise 
that he will be green or purple, for the church bars 
the purple from you, while eyes like Antonito’s are 
quite rare; but we may hope that he shall still be 
pink!” 

“Very well,” she cried, with a quick throb of her 
bosom, and going, with her strange swirl of her 
cloak, to the cage, she bent swiftly over it, and, turn¬ 
ing again, ran to Violeta with her two hands closed 
before her. 

“Take them. They are the littlest pair, and to 
me the most beautiful. Do you think so, too? I 


126 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


know them to be the most loving. They are Beppo 
and Babette. If they were mine any longer I would 
rename them after you and your husband. So you 
call him Antonito? Never separate them. They 
would die as soon as they were able. Take them and 
love them. My dears, how I would like to have one 
of the halves of your hair! Yours is soft, soft black, 
like rich earth to nourish your violet eyes. And 
yours, how very gold—and how strange for a man, 
and a Spanish man! I envy you. I, you have seen, 
have both dark and light, to spoil each other!” And 
she stepped away quickly. 

“But the money!” exclaimed he, following. “And 
for all your sweet words to my esposita, will you 
please ask us more than of others ?” And he held out 
a hand filled with money. 

“No! No!” she cried, shrinking back. “No! No! 
Not to me, I beseech you! To the padre—and let 
him decide how much! He will know the prices of 
existence here. Jose! Jose! Run to the cage, and 
see if I reach it before you!” 

She did, and again plunged in her hand, and met 
him with it. 

“Here is one for you that also must not leave its 
mate. Which is your favourite friend ?” 

“This one,” said Jose, pulling forth Tito from be¬ 
hind him, “although he is the smallest of all.” 

“But I have two parents,” said Tito, looking up 
at her from under Jose’s arm. “It was only found 
out this week, and made a sensation.” 

“So, baby mine?” said the Parrot Woman. “Well, 
they will have a sensation when you grow up and 
fly away from them. So be good to them while you 
are small, for my little birds must dwell in houses 


SIMPATICA 


127 


that are full of affection. Now, call some one out 
by name, and when he has his bird, he shall name 
his special friend, and so on in turn. Come, we will 
make a game of it!” And from Tito to Bernardo, to 
Guillermo, on through selection, her cargo dwindled. 

Once she said to the padre: “Would you help me? 
We will never have done! You need not fear to put 
in your hand, and they will not to have you, for you 
are gentle. You will not make a mistake, for when 
you take a bird in your hand, the mate will jump 
on your finger.” 

At last, holding a single bird in ten white fingers 
that trembled no less than the creature they inclosed, 
she stood in the centre, casting about, with her eyes, 
around the circle. 

“And who will buy my last little bird? He has 
no mate, for she died one cold night as we came 
through the mountains. For whom, then?” 

The padre approached her. “Why do you not 
keep him for yourself?” he asked gently. “The sum 
is ample as it stands. Or will you let me buy him, 
to give you for a keepsake?” 

“No, no! I could not! I could not!” she cried 
hastily, in a low voice. “Forgive me. Come, who 
buys my last little bird? He could be for some one 
quite old, who lives in a house all alone.” 

On a bench aside, in the flickering torchlight, sat 
three such ladies, watching with six bright eyes. At 
the ends were old Rosa and ancient Ines, who hated 
each other, and in the dangerous intervening space 
sat little Amarillis, parting them to the extent of 
her capacity—some very few inches, for she was the 
smallest grown woman in town. The moment of 
silence was brief, for Ines spoke loudly and promptly. 


128 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


“If you will give me the bird,” she said, “I will 
take you home with me, and let you sleep in my house 
all night.” 

“You lie!” cried Rosa. “The dead could not sleep 
with you in the house! This very week, you kept 
your last husband’s corpse awake all night rejoicing 
over it! I shall fetch her home with me, and a hand¬ 
ful of your hair into the bargain!” 

“Silence!” commanded the padre, coming up. 
“Old ladies must not quarrel! Love birds are not for 
brawlers!” 

“She acted like a miser and a monster!” cried 
Rosa. 

“She was very kind,” said the Parrot Woman, 
“but you are my earlier friend, and I shall sleep with 
you.” She turned to Amarillis, who was always too 
frightened to speak unless she was more afraid not 
to. “Senora, would you like my little bird?” 

“I would like it very much,” said Amarillis, with 
her very small voice, “but my husband is dead too, 
and I have no money.” 

“Kiss me,” said the woman, briefly, and set John¬ 
nie on her finger. 

She went abruptly to the empty cage and lifting 
it, went by the padre and across the narrow street 
into the shop. He did not speak or accompany 
her, for he had seen her face as it passed him, and 
he waited, granting her time in which to return when 
she should choose. She appeared shortly, closing 
the door tight behind her, and bringing with her, 
in place of the cage, a large bundle of seeds. 

“Divide them among yourselves,” she said simply, 
and laying it on a chair came across to him. She 


SIMPATICA 


129 


carried her head high, and there was a smile on her 
lips. 

“Is it good night, monsieur?” she asked gayly. 

“In a little while, my daughter,” he said, avoiding 
her eyes. “Had I sooner known you would stay with 
us, I would not have left your house unprepared. 
For my slowness of wit, I must precede you there to 
arrange it—in, let us say, half an hour. Old Rosa 
will fetch you to the door, and meanwhile to any¬ 
thing that might amuse you. Or you could walk 
about for yourself. Let me promise you a fine sight 
from the top of the hill—directly there, back of the 
inn. It looks down into the Chasm Road, and you 
will see the night mist moving up and down.” 

In leaving her, he patted her cheek without look¬ 
ing at her. 

“Ah,” he said to himself, biting his lip as he 
walked on, “I should have looked!” And he looked 
at his hand, which glistened in the moonlight. 

He turned, hesitant, but his gaze did not find her 
in the dissolving crowd, and, as he gazed about, the 
torches were extinguished, and a cloud curtain drew 
itself across the moon, shutting the square in dark¬ 
ness. When it had passed, he saw her figure stand¬ 
ing on the crest of the hill. It was so lonely, so stark 
against the sky, that he went back across the green 
and plodded up to her. 

“Do you not feel too much, my child?” he said. 

The eyes that turned to his were terrible. 

“Feel, monsieur? Yes, I may say I feel. I can 
feel the heavy pesetas you intend to give me. I can 
feel their boughten food passing down my throat as 
I did the bird seed yesterday. I can feel the letters 
of ‘Traitress’ written across my back. Have you 


130 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


noticed that the forehead does not crack in reading 
books, monsieur? It was my back that I nearly 
broke looking out the forbidden word from every 
language; and the straw that fluttered onto the 
camel was from England. Feel? I can feel the soft, 
creeping rustle of their feathers as they would print 
it on my cloak, and the sharp pain at my heart as 
I would be stamping my foot at them to the end— 
for, like Terassa, monsieur, it has a double 6 s.’ 99 

“But, my dear,” said the padre, “they are still in 
Terassa, and so will you be. And if my words were 
light, so was my heart when I said I hoped you might 
marry.” 

She shuddered. “Having sold my husband, I am 
a widow now, and I shall die a faithful one. Indeed, 
indeed, I have lived my life, monsieur; and will you 
forgive me if I say that there has been achievement 
in it? My little birds whom I have betrayed, mon¬ 
sieur—you have kindly praised their training. Must 
the best art come from wrong? It is sad to think, 
but so it has been with me, monsieur. For with my 
false tale once begun, I told myself that I was mar¬ 
ried to them, and I behaved as though I were. Mon¬ 
sieur, did you see me stamp my feet?” 

“I did,” said the padre, “and I was much im¬ 
pressed at it.” 

“Ah, monsieur, I think a great love can have, with¬ 
out harm done, a little cruelty. So I have taught 
them, thinking them my husband—with kisses in 
scolding, and sometimes anger in kisses. We were 
indeed true lovers, and the bond between us was the 
word we did not have to speak to-night; monsieur, 
we were —simpdticos with each other. Though with 
the church over my left shoulder, I have been truly 


SIMPATICA 


131 


married with a ring, albeit my ring was of sawdust !” 

“And now,’’ said the padre thoughtfully, “you 
think that you have been unfaithful to your mar¬ 
riage vow.” 

“Unfaithful, monsieur? Yes, and for money!” 
Her face was dry eyed, but his heart shrank from the 
look that stood for water in her eyes and the pallor 
that ran down her cheeks, and sudden determina¬ 
tion clinched Padre Pedro’s hands. “My child, will 
you stay here alone for a little time? I am going to 
fetch your husband back to you.” He did not have 
to avoid, as he had done in the moonlit square, the 
picture of her eyes, for her head was lowered; but 
he knew that a greater light than moonlight had 
leaped into them. 

“You must direct me to his little wire house. Did 
you leave it in the shop? I must have it to collect 
his pieces in.” 

The woman raised her quivering, tear-stained 
face. “No, monsieur. I put it where I intended to 
go after it myself, as soon as I had the courage.” 

“And where is that ?” asked the padre. 

“Ah, monsieur, will you chide me?” she cried. “I 
threw it off the top of the hill, into the chasm there!” 

He took her face in his two hands, and though his 
voice did not chide, it was sadder than she had yet 
heard it. 

“My child, you told me at supper that you had 
wicked thoughts, and I did not believe you. If you 
threw the cage directly below us, it is only two 
hundred feet away, but I will have to walk a mile 
to circumvent it.” 

“Ah, monsieur,” she answered, with sobs that 
caught at every word, “you need not walk that mile 


132 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


for me. We have never had a home before, monsieur, 
and the cage was only to carry them from place to 
place, and if you will but set them free, they will 
find me out before morning. And we will work for 
you, monsieur! They shall work for the people of 
Terassa at your festivals, and between festivals I 
will work with my hands. I will make lace, I will 
tend the greenhouse, I will wash Margarita’s floor so 
that she will find it clean when she returns—I will 
wash all the floors in Terassa!” 

“I am afraid,” said the padre, “that no floors 
need washing to-night. But fingers that tremble 
like yours need some employment, so, while I am 
gone, I would have you sit here studying, for your 
little birds to copy, the patterns God makes with 
the night mist, and let the fingers braid your pretty 
hair.” 

When he spied her again it was in the sunlight, 
for as she had sat waiting on the edge of the hill, gaz¬ 
ing down across the valley, darts of rose colour, sud¬ 
den as flying birds, had pierced the chasm mist kin¬ 
dling it to a great fire; and this sank backward to 
uphold a bleeding heart that dripped into the remain¬ 
ing fragments of vapour, and, being drained, found 
itself a miracle of gold that touched, as with the 
finger of Midas, every particle of the hillside. 

She did not look around at his approach, but she 
shifted her head, and leaned it back against his 
sleeve. 

“Such idle hands!” he said, in mock reproach. 
“And the greenhouse, and the lacework?” 

“I will spoil a cabbage this morning,” she 
answered, “and a piece of lace this afternoon. To- 


SIMPATICA 


133 


morrow I will ruin only one or the other, and in 
two days neither.” 

It was past the season of grain, but down on 
the hillside a dark spot moved like rye tops in the 
wind. It was too quick for the shadow of a cloud, 
but it looked like one. It came toward them, and 
over them, blotting their faces, and fell upon her 
in fragments, climbing the ladders of her braided 
hair, creeping through the fastenings of her dress, 
standing on the buttons of her shoes, scolding her, 
kissing her, suffusing her. 

“Daughter of mine,” said the padre softly, strok¬ 
ing the brown streak across her head, “are you 
content ?” 

“Content?” she cried, quieting her nervous fin¬ 
gers by setting the green things here and there about 
his gown. “Oh, content, content! Except that I 
am so frightened—so afraid! So afraid!” 

“Afraid of what?” he asked. 

“Of a terrible thing, monsieur,” she answered. 
“I am afraid that I am going to be happy!” 


V 


SUB ROSA 

T HE devil had come on several short visits to 
Terassa, but never openly or in his own like¬ 
ness, and no one would have supposed that he would 
venture into so good a town showing his own face 
or even a faithful picture of it. But news is some¬ 
times surprising. 

Once he had come in a very pleasant-looking gen¬ 
tleman from America, who gave five cents apiece to 
all the padre’s thirty little boys for luck money, 
while in the same hour with this benevolence he was 
secretly inspiring the proprietor of the fonda to 
learn, and sell, American drinks. This was the more 
astonishing, because Satan had done the same thing 
to the former proprietor, years before, with the 
result that a man had met his death at the hands of 
Miguel, whose devout parents had named him after 
the statue in the poppy fields, and who was alto¬ 
gether too fine a youth to have recorded Terassa’s 
only murder. 

Through reminiscences of this, the padre suc¬ 
cessfully awed and reformed the new proprietor, but 
not in time to avoid a fresh calamity, and that to a 
lady marked for her years and her timidity. This 
was Amarillis, a widow so abnormally meek that she 
almost never spoke. She said so little even at con¬ 
fession that the padre would have been disturbed 
save for his great faith in her honesty. She did not 
134 


SUB ROSA 


135 


speak when her husband died—it was found out later 
without her having mentioned it; and she had 
scarcely spoken while he was alive, although he was 
kind and encouraging. Old Rosa, who had a great 
many mean thoughts about people, said she did not 
believe they had ever been married, for Amariilis 
could never have brought herself to make the re¬ 
sponses ; and all Amariilis replied to this wicked sug¬ 
gestion was, “I did, Rose,” even avoiding the “a” 
at the end of Rosa’s pretty name. She was so ex¬ 
ceedingly small that she had to be very cautious in 
drinking her wine; but diminutive stature is quite 
usually a sign of latent inquisitiveness, and, having 
seen the American gentleman enjoying his strange 
drink at the fonda, and having saved a little money, 
she bought one. 

And she talked all the way home, and to 
nearly all the people she met, whether she was 
acquainted with them or not, saying things, more¬ 
over, that no one would have supposed she knew. 
She afterward denied it to the padre, not with 
many words, it is true, but weeping very sorrow¬ 
fully at her lost reputation, and shaking her head 
repeatedly, with a most convincing expression, so 
that the padre concluded she must have taken some¬ 
thing extremely dangerous, and was thus led to in¬ 
vestigate the fonda, and to stop the devil’s work 
in it for the second time. 

Again, the devil must have come to the first Wine 
Festival, and in several forms, for love spells were 
sold by an old magician who set up in town, and the 
padre had to buy him off with money earned by the 
little boys in the poppy fields; and before that mani¬ 
festation, the padre discovered ancient Ines, Te- 


136 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


rassa’s thriftiest lace maker, finishing a fine piece of 
thread work with a big outline of the devil in it. 
When he destroyed it, he paid for the thread; but 
she was never repaid for the time and pains she had 
spent, and although her husband happened to die 
next day, which softened the padre’s heart toward 
her, and should have softened hers toward him, she 
became an atheist, in the hope of hurting his feelings. 

It did, but he was wise enough not to show it; 
and Ines, not having been struck dead as she had 
greatly feared she would be, enjoyed atheism very 
much, save that the padre did not seem so impressed 
as she had expected. 

The devil having successfully proved his cunning 
upon Amarillis and Ines, the padre began to fear 
for his orphans, and with reason, for Tito, his young¬ 
est and tenderest, ran away with a marionette from 
the magician’s booth; and no sooner was the festival 
over than Jose, who had been so bad that the padre 
had threatened to return him to the almshouse in 
Barcelona, but who had always been brave and truth¬ 
ful about his crimes, was found out to be also a liar. 
He told Tito that a cow, lowing for assistance when 
it needed to be milked, did not make the noise with its 
mouth, but with its horn. And Tito believed it, and 
corrected the padre in the natural-history lesson. 
For all these reasons, it was with some brightness of 
heart that he ^turned his thoughts to a smaller and 
religious festival, that should have its gaiety apart 
from wines. 

Down in the padre’s poppy fields, from where 
Terassa’s hill looks like a girl’s green skirt with a 
small Spanish flag sewed at the hem, there is a statue 
of San Miguel. It is not the one that used to 


SUB ROSA 


137 


stand there, but it is quite splendid, made out of 
stone as bold and pretty as marble, and as lifelife as 
anything in the cemetery at Barcelona. The padre 
never looked toward it as he had done toward the old 
wooden one; but his eyes gave admiration to replace 
affection, and the other rises safe in a votive niche 
in his church in the Chasm Road, secure from rain 
and wayfaring kisses. 

There were many stories about the old statue, for 
San Miguel was Terassa’s patron saint. Some peo¬ 
ple said that it had been there before any one was 
born in Terassa; and others that it was found there 
on the eighth of May after the first few citizens 
were born, to mark the Apparition of St. Michael; 
and still others, even more devout, said that it was 
not an apparition, but a transfiguration. If this 
was true, St. Michael was indeed transformed, for 
he had only half a wing, and the upper part of his 
spear had vanished, carrying the thumb with it; but 
when this condition was ridiculed by strangers, the 
padre referred them to a well-known house of curios 
in Paris, where, he maintained, there was a highly 
prized figure no whit better off. 

The master of the poppy fields, Antonito, loved 
it, too, and knew it to be so close to the padre’s heart 
that, from the goodness of his own, and, perhaps, 
from a state of conscience at his participation in 
the love spells, he suggested that the remainder of 
the little boys’ money be used for a new statue. 
There was little enough; but Violeta made a reply 
to this by going about among the prosperous Teras- 
sans and acquiring more. So loved was the padre 
that the poor contributed, too, and Amarillis gave 
a coin. Rosa declared it could not be called giving, 


138 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


for she said nothing about it. Violeta had found her 
standing, at hottest noon, against the highway wall, 
with the coin on her outstretched palm. When it 
was taken from her, she nodded her head, and wept, 
and went home. 

This coin completed a very fair sum, and the 
padre decided to go forth for a statue, and to give 
Rosa a holiday by taking her with him. 

At first she was ungrateful, accusing him of ex¬ 
travagance and some nefarious purpose; but such 
was his knowledge of her character that her climb¬ 
ing into his cart at the last inconvenient moment 
did not put him about, and he smiled with pleasure 
at her company and its possibilities of good advice 
in selecting the statue, for though her tongue was 
fuller of venom than any other organ in Terassa, 
there was imbedded in it a power of hitting the truth 
that would turn a gypsy’s face as pitiably white as 
an American’s. 

To the padre’s sorrow and almost persuading him 
that the devil was deliberate in his choice of widows, 
she was quite herself in Barcelona, where her temper 
was not understood, and where she was arrested for 
being saucy—indeed, very cruel—to a soldier, with 
whom she quarrelled without the slightest provoca¬ 
tion. In addition, she was afterward defiant, and did 
nothing to pacify the government, so that she had 
to stay in prison a whole afternoon. Luckily, the 
padre was a gentleman of so pleasant and gentle a 
demeanour that her retainers were mollified toward 
evening, and he returned to Terassa with Rosa and 
the statue both intact. 

No one was allowed to see it, save Antoni to, who 
helped the padre to raise it by night in the poppy 


SUB BOSA 


139 


fields, and droop a canvas over it. Next morning 
the little boys were all very much excited at having 
to work in close proximity to it, and not look under 
the covering, and the padre heard Jose say to Tito: 
“You would not dare come down in the moonlight 
and look underneath.” 

“I confess it,” Tito replied, “but neither would 
you.” 

“I would,” said Jose, “if the devil were under it.” 

“I do not think,” said Tito affectionately, “that 
I would be so very afraid of the devil if you were 
with me, Jose.” 

Having rebuked them sharply for this conversa¬ 
tion, the padre turned to preparations for the cere¬ 
monies. The Parrot Woman engaged to perform, 
having her little birds flutter up from her as the 
canvas was lifted, and cluster down upon the statue; 
and the little boys should make the first crop of 
spring poppies say, in big, red letters outlined with 
yellow, “SAN MIGUEL” ; and at the close Juanita, 
whose pretty voice was not happy in church music, 
would sing and dance some of the graceful melodies 
from “La Gran Via.” 

All was arranged, but there was one more trouble 
in store, for the elderly ladies of the town gathered 
on the village green to discuss who should walk two 
and two in the procession. Rosa said that, although 
she was the most important woman in Terassa, hav¬ 
ing bought the statue, she would not walk at all if 
the atheist, Ines, were allowed to look at it, even 
from a distance; and when Ines declared that she 
had changed her mind again, and was now a Catho¬ 
lic, Rosa urged the rest to stone her from the green. 
Amarillis, who loved them both, strove earnestly to 


140 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


speak, to pacify them, but the only genteel thing 
she could think of was a remark that had greatly 
impressed her when made by an elegant foreign lady 
who crooked out her little finger in drinking tea, and 
Amarillis repeated it now: 

“I hope we will have rain.” She was much cha¬ 
grined and hurt when both Rosa and Ines turned 
upon her and accused her of malice; and it was 
finally the Parrot Woman who settled the difficutly. 

“Amarillis meant to be polite,” she said, “and as 
for stoning any one, the padre would not allow it. 
If Ines says she has reformed, she should be allowed 
to come. You know the padre asked me to walk 
alone in front of the couples with all my little birds 
flying; but if you continue unkind, I shall have Ines 
walk with me, which would spoil the effect. Al¬ 
though,” she added kindly, “I consider her hand¬ 
some.” 

“She looks like Punch and Judy!” cried Rosa; 
but as the Parrot Woman was the only person in 
town whom nobody disliked, she had her way, and 
it was arranged that Ines should walk with Amarillis, 
who did not hate her. 

The chosen day proved fine, with a very blue sky, 
and spring flowers open in profusion, and Terassa 
had not seen a fairer sight than the procession as it 
moved singing down the glittering highway. The 
padre came first, followed by the thirty little boys 
in choir costume, and the Parrot Woman next, with 
all her green birds flying ahead of the pairs of old 
ladies, who in turn preceded the main populace. Ines 
was in line, and every one thought her reform must 
be sincere, for she sang louder than any one else, and 
when the procession had wound around the statue, 


SUB ROSA 


141 


and come to a halt among the flower beds, she stood 
out of place in her eagerness to see. 

The padre raised his hands, the Ave Maria broke 
forth, Antonito grasped the pulley rope, the birds 
rose from the Parrot Woman, the covering lifted. 

But the little boys stopped singing, the canvas 
fell in a lump among the poppies, the padre’s hands 
remained upraised, a great heart-throbbing went 
through the people. It seemed in truth an appari¬ 
tion that they had seen. It was the statue of St. 
Michael; but the beautiful white face was painted 
red, like the devil’s face; there were two cow horns 
on its head; and a long tail of hempen rope, with a 
thorn on the end, hung mortifyingly down to the 
ground. 

There was an utter hush, until suddenly all the 
thirty little boys began to cry, and to stampede 
over the poppy beds, and then confusion and noise 
ran riot. Ines, screaming with horror, was carried 
into Rosa’s house, where she had tried to get for 
twenty years. Antonito could not seem to collect 
the little boys, or himself either; and it was not 
until lungs were exhausted that the people remem¬ 
bered the padre, and fell silent out of respect for 
him. When his voice came, it was so quiet and so 
sorrowful that it awed them more than the sacrilege 
had done. 

“Go home,” was all he said. 

In the church, Jose denied it with a vehemence 
that verged upon anger. 

“Think well,” said the padre, “for you have been 
known to lie once, my dear, and if you do so now, 
and are found out, you shall surely go back to the 


142 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


almshouse, though my two thumbs would be wet 
every time that I thought of you there. Think well!” 

But he was defiant and sullen, and presently the 
padre, with a long sigh, called the whole thirty to¬ 
gether, that he might question them in each other’s 
presence. Jose usually sat beside Tito, but to-day 
he crept to the rear, and Tito came next to Ber¬ 
nardo. 

“Guillermo!” called the padre. 

“No, padre!” and so on to Bernardo: “No, 
padre!” 

“Tito!” 

But Jose sprang up, white and trembling. 

“I did it, padre, I did it!” he cried, and rushed 
through the doorway with tears enough to dampen 
all the thumbs in Spain. 

At noon next day the padre sank down on Rosa’s 
doorstep. 

“My heart is broken,” he said. “All night I did 
not sleep. I prayed and prayed, and I do not seem 
to have been answered. Shall he go to the almshouse? 
Must I keep my word? Rosa, when you are not 
cross you are my best and wisest friend. Can it be 
that God will answer me through you?” 

“He will to this extent,” said Rosa. “I have 
prayed less and thought more, and you may set your 
mind at rest about the almshouse, for Jose did not 
do it.” 

“What?” cried the padre, staring at her. “Do 
you know this? How do you know it?” 

“How many bones are there in the human body?” 
asked Rosa. 

“You should know better than I,” said the padre 


SUB ROSA 


143 


testily, “for you are always picking people to pieces, 
but I am told there are one hundred and fifty.” 

“Then,” said Rosa. “I know one hundred and fifty 
times that Jose did not do it.” 

“Is it wisdom,” demanded the padre, “to say and 
say a thing because you wish it?” 

“What can that be?’ asked Rosa, peering into the 
road. 

A small cloud of dust was flying toward them down 
the highway, and in a moment Tito, in a whirl of 
golden dirt, arrived before the padre, jumping madly 
up and down. 

“What ails you?’ cried the padre. “Are you on 
strings? Do you think you are the marionette that 
you stole? Stop jumping! Speak!” 

But Tito flung himself upon the padre, closing up 
his legs on him like the blades of a jackknife. 

“Jose did not do it!” he screamed. “I did it! I 
did it!” 

“Stop howling!” cried the padre. “Stop this 
fright, and tell me. Why did Jose confess?” 

“To save me from the almshouse!” wailed Tito; 
and the bladelike legs sprang open again, and in a 
fresh storm of tears he vanished up the highway 
whence he had come. 

The padre did not follow him, but instead leaned 
heavily against old Rosa. “Did I have two hearts ?” 
he asked weakly; and suddenly his head sank upon 
his hands, and great drops crept forth between the 
fingers. 

“Come, come!” exclaimed Rosa, half angry and 
half frightened. “Are you yourself a child? Come! 
Am I a wet nurse, that I must pet you, and ruin my 
apron doing it? You need rest. Go home at once, 


144 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


and drink some hot milk and wine, and lie down for 
two hours. I will come to you then, and we will 
straighten out the matter. I promise it, and I 
promise I will not be cross! Come, God wants 
you to!” 

“I am in your hands,” he answered, and started 
up the highway, going as slowly as a blind man. 

But not as slowly as Rosa went about her house, 
dressing herself in several colours, and applying 
finery that she had not worn in years. She put on 
her mother’s wedding skirt, which was still quite yel¬ 
low; and above it a great shawl of Valencia lace, 
which had become so. For her mantilla she chose a 
snowy-white one from Madrid, and back of it, shelter¬ 
ing her ear, fixed a rose of crimson paper. When 
she was nearly satisfied, she added three feathers, 
after the cheerful manner of the recent Princess of 
Wales, thrusting them into her hair through her 
mantilla. Then, after a last glance at her mirror, she 
stepped out into the sunlight, and, drawing her 
creamy laces close about her, went up the highway 
like a baby’s funeral. 

When she came to the door of Ines’s house, she 
did not knock at it, for she knew she would never 
pass it if she did; she pushed it open boldly and 
entered, closing it behind her. 

Ines began to bow very low, but in doing so she 
recognized Rosa, and straightened up in her aston¬ 
ishment. 

“My friend,” said Rosa, “you are surprised, but 
I have come to you with such news as you never have 
heard!” 

“I do not believe you!” gasped Ines. “You would 


SUB ROSA 


145 


not be here if you did not have some spite up your 
back! Get up off my chair!” 

“Sit yourself down on the other one,” said Rosa, 
“and it will bring our eyes on as good a level. As 
for what I have up my back, it would humble you 
lower than the chair, if I were cruel enough to tell it 
suddenly.” 

“If you must tell me your news,” cried Ines, “tell 
it and quit my house!” 

“Now that you have obeyed me and sat down,” 
said Rosa, “I will. But I must do it gradually, lest 
you fall over onto the floor and injure yourself. 
Should you not fortify yourself with a little wine?” 

“You shall have none of my wine!” cried Ines. 

“What manners you have,” said Rosa, “when I 
have come to you in sheerest charity! If I had not 
the kindest heart in Terassa, would I have been 
polite enough to wear all these lovely, expensive 
clothes, that have been in my family for two hundred 
years ?” 

“Take the wine, then,” cried Ines, “and hurry, or 
I will put you out, and with very few of your 
clothes!” 

“My poor friend,” replied Rosa, sipping slowly, 
“your fate is pitiable, so I will not keep you in this 
terrible suspense, but tell you the worst in as few 
words as I can think of. Well, it is this: The 
padre knows you did it.” 

“You lie!” screamed Ines. “Did what?” 

“He knows you defiled the statue, and he knows 
it on the best authority.” 

“You lie! You lie!” screamed Ines again. “No 
one would have told him such a thing but you! Go 
home! I will have no gutter people in my house. 


146 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


and you are painted like an Englishwoman! As you 
run, beware the little boys, for you look like a piece 
of candy!” 

“I own it,” said Rosa. “I did not dare come other¬ 
wise, lest you paint me yourself, as you did the 
statue.” 

“You fiend, how dare you accuse me?” shrieked 
Ines. “Me, the most popular woman in town, and 
one who has had several loving husbands, whereas 
you, in your maddest moments, boast of only one, 
and one that nobody remembers! This from you, 
an abandoned woman who has been in jail!” 

“Take care, you wretch!” cried Rosa violently. 
“You have made a mistake in mentioning that! You 
would have known me guiltless if you had seen me 
sitting among the rest, for I was the only woman of 
elegant appearance there, while all the others were 
low and tawdry, like yourself! Let me tell you that 
in my cell I was coupled with a corrupt unfortunate 
who swallowed the tails of her sardines, and resem¬ 
bled you in every other particular save her tongue, 
which was civil, and her teeth, which were present. 
This is how I found out that!” 

“Murderess,” screamed Ines, “you will find mine 
present if you slap me again! You were guilty, and 
everybody knows it! Stop it! Guilty of assault, 
and that upon a poor young soldier less than half 
your years! Let go of me and get out of my house, 
or I will take my broom and sweep you out, all but 
your thumb!” And she sprang across to the corner. 

“Drop that broom!” cried Rosa. “Do you think 
I swept the soldier? I did no more to him than I 
have done to you, or I would be in jail yet! Do you 


SUB ROSA 


147 


wish to go there yourself? Drop it! Do you see I 
have your wine jug in my hand?” 

“Set down my jug!” 

“Set down the broom,” shouted Rosa, “and do 
the same thing to your spine on that stool, or I 
will lash you with your own tail from the statue! 
Though I suspected you from the start, it was not 
I who told the padre, but I know who did, for I over¬ 
heard the conversation!” 

“Who told him?” gasped Ines, sinking onto the 
stool. 

“Look what you did to my shawl!” said Rosa, 
settling back in her chair and displaying her lace. 
“I came here out of charity to tell you, and look at 
what you did!” 

“Who told him?” demanded Ines again, trembling 
all over. 

“The devil,” said Rosa calmly. “He came up last 
night through the Chasm Road, and called on the 
padre at his house, and told him how he had in¬ 
spired you to do it.” 

“You lie! You are doing this to frighten me! 
The devil could never come up the Chasm Road!” 

“I saw it with my own eyes,” said Rosa. “I was 
going up to the padre’s in the moonlight, about ten 
o’clock, but I never got there, for I saw this dread¬ 
ful sight. He had a great brazier on his head, up¬ 
side down like your tasteless bonnet. And he was 
making a terrifying noise, for in one hand he carried 
a huge tin pan, and in the other a great, red-hot iron 
stick, with which he beat horrible music out of it. 
It was a fearful sight, I assure you, and if I had 
not been a virtuous woman, or had had such a con¬ 
science as yours must be, I would have fallen right 


148 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


down on my face in a fit. As it was, my knees 
cracked together so that I could scarcely totter up 
to the padre’s house and listen to the conversation 
through the window. You will soon have a chance to 
tell him whether he can climb the Chasm Road or 
not, for he is coming to get you at precisely six 
o’clock. He arranged it last night with the padre. 
That is what I came to tell you, but I shall tell you 
nothing more until you confess.” 

“I confess!” cried Ines, weeping and wringing her 
hands. “I confess! I confess !” 

“So, you awful woman!” exclaimed Rosa. “Of 
course, your confession is only a formality, because 
the four of us knew it—the padre and I, and the devil 
and you; hut I am glad you have made it, for it 
proves that the devil himself is more truthful than 
you are. To think that a woman of your years 
would tell such wicked lies, and, after committing a 
vile crime, allow suspicion to rest upon two innocent 
little boys!” 

“I have confessed! I have confessed!” wept Ines. 
“Tell me more!” 

“Well, here is a point,” said Rosa. “The reason 
the devil consulted the padre, to begin with, was on 
account of your atheism. He said he had been very 
pleased about it, and spoke of America, which is very 
guilty on that score. He told the padre that he 
knew of one gentleman that had been the most popu¬ 
lar there—so beloved that he was sent all around 
the world, and met every single person in it except 
the pope, and yet he was not a Catholic. ‘But,’ said 
the devil, ‘even he was not quite an atheist.’ So, by 
the simplest arithmetic, Ines, you can see that you 
are worse than any human being in America.” 


SUB ROSA 


149 


“I never meant it!” wept Ines. 

“He was anxious to know whether the padre in¬ 
tended to overlook it, and when he replied that he 
had not decided, and was debating whether to ex¬ 
communicate you, the devil asked if, in event of his 
favouring you there, he would also absolve you from 
having defiled the statue, and the padre, very pale 
and with a gesture of horror, cried out that if you 
had done that he was through with you, and that 
so far as he was concerned the devil might have you 
any time he liked. But I will tell you no more, for 
the rest is so fearful I am sure you could not sus¬ 
tain it.” 

“I beg you! I beg you!” wailed Ines. 

“Very well, then. The reason the devil said six 
o’clock, was so that you will be in time to cook his 
supper. That is to be one of your punishments, and 
I am sure you will not delay about it, for not only 
would he prod you with his burning stick, but the 
kitchen, of course, is the most overheated part of the 
place, and fancy how you will hop on the red-hot 
floor, and in your bare feet, too! Another punish¬ 
ment is to be for your sin of vainglory, in pretend¬ 
ing you came from gentle folk. You are not to be 
allowed to so much as speak to any one of gentle 
birth there, so, as it is chiefly gentle folk who go 
there, you will have almost no company. The rest 
I could scarce hear, from fright, or see, with my eyes 
nearly blind from the little blue flames that flickered 
up and down on his tail, which is not at all like the 
limp copy you hung on the statue; but I bated my 
breath for your sake. Will you hear to the end, or 
would you rather find out when you get there?” 


150 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


“I beseech you! I beseech you!” Ines moaned, 
rocking to and fro on her chair. 

“Well, when it was arranged, the devil, with a 
very satisfied expression at having got you for him¬ 
self, and as impressively as I speak it now, leaned 
over to the padre and whispered to him: ‘Now that 
we are agreed about her, I will tell you in confidence 
that there is but one way she can escape me, and 
that would never occur to her. There is one town 
in the world that I never go into. It is wicked 
enough, I assure you, but so expensive that even I 
cannot afford it. Besides, it is so far away that she 
could scarcely get there before six o’clock . 5 Then 
he mentioned the name; but for years, Ines, you have 
accused me behind my back of being spiteful, and 
I fear I am enough so not to tell you.” 

“Rosa! Rosa!” moaned Ines. “Is it not enough 
that I must leave my little house that I have lived in 
with three husbands ?” 

“Well, well, I will be charitable,” said Rosa, “for 
I boasted I would be; but not until you have con¬ 
fessed other crimes. Mind you are truthful, or you 
will never hear the name. First, when I so kindly 
ordered jelly from you for the Wine Festival, I 
found a needle in it. Did you, or did you not, delib¬ 
erately put it in?” 

“I did, Rosa, I did!” 

“So! And you did it in the wicked hope that it 
would kill me!” 

“No, Rosa! I swear it! It stands to reason that 
I would have feared to have murder on my soul, but 
I hoped that it would nearly kill you.” 

“And you see,” exclaimed Rosa, “that I have lived 


SUB ROSA 


151 


to save your soul! Oh, you fearful woman, how 
horrible must your feelings be about it now!” 

“I have confessed, Rosa, I have confessed!” 

“There is one more thing. While I was in Barce¬ 
lona, buying the statue, a tragedy occurred, when a 
fashionable young lady threw a burning fluid in her 
lover’s face, because he had deserted her. Now, con¬ 
fess that you have some of that fearful acid in your 
closet, waiting an opportunity to throw it at me, 
because you have always been jealous of my good 
looks. I know you have it, for the devil was men¬ 
tioning it only last night to the padre.” 

“He lied!” cried Ines, springing up. “You shall 
look in my closet yourself!” 

“No,” said Rosa. “I will never look in your closet, 
for you would afterward gossip down there, and say 
I did it to snoop into your laces, as you tried to do 
in my house yesterday. The suspicion will have to 
stand between your word and the devil’s, and I know 
which to take.” 

“You shall look! You shall!” cried Ines wildly, 
and she threw the door open herself. 

“Now remember,” warned Rosa, “you insisted I 
should!” and she carefully examined the contents. 
“Well, I admit you have none. I see the devil can 
tell lies as wickedly as you can. I would not 
have believed it of him! And I will say your lace is 
quite pretty—if it were only a little bit prettier, you 
might be able to sell it to some one.” 

“But the town, Rosa, the town!” 

“I will tell you in a moment,” said Rosa, “though 
I fear it will gain you little, for the place is so very 
far, I doubt, as the devil did, if you get there by six. 
But I will help you all I can. Listen carefully. 


152 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


With only your mule, and your cart, and with all of 
your goods piled in that, you can never cover the 
distance, for you must go at a most frantic pace. 
You shall see whether I came in friendship, for with 
veriest forethought and kindness I have brought a 
little money with me, and though your lace is not as 
good as you have boasted, there is quite a lot of it, 
and without examining it further, for the whole of 
it, I will give you the sum I have brought. It is not 
much, for though I am richer than you are, I did 
not feel I should spend more on such a wicked woman, 
and it will be enough for you to buy that goat of 
Juanita’s that she is so anxious to be rid of. It is 
ailing a little, but with the mule to pull it along, it 
will be better than nothing, and something with horns 
is appropriate. You can at least get well on your 
way, and at great risk to myself I will do one other 
thing for you. Just before six I will return here for 
the lace, and when the devil comes and discovers your 
flight, I will engage him in conversation as long as 
I can. I would never dare mislead him, but I can be 
very entertaining when I like, and it may get you 
a little extra time. If I am found out, I chance hor¬ 
rible punishment, but I think he will be more inclined 
to smile at my cleverness. Now hasten with your 
preparations, for the town, my poor, lost friend, 
is Algeciras, next door to Gibraltar, and you will 
have to go a thousand miles an hour! Now will you 
tell me whether I am kind?” 

But Ines did not tell, for she had fainted, and Rosa 
sped across the square to the smallest house in 
Terassa, and seized Amarillis by the shoulders. 

“Here is something that will make you talk for 
once! It was Ines that defiled the statue, and she 


SUB ROSA 


153 


has confessed it! Run to the padre, and tell him! 
I promised to come myself, but I am busy, for I 
must tell every one else! Keep your wits together, 
and remember to say ‘Ines did it, and has confessed P 
Run! Run!” 

Amarillis ran. Running was a simple matter for 
her, compared with speech; but as she went she be¬ 
came more and more terrified lest the padre would 
not believe what she said, if she could say it, and at 
her frantic appearance on his threshold he sat for¬ 
ward in his chair. 

“What is the matter, Amarillis? Why do you 
make faces? Are you very ill?” 

Amarillis did not answer, but reached out her 
hand. 

“Amarillis, you alarm me! Speak out! Why do 
you crook your finger at me in that ridiculous man¬ 
ner ?” 

“I—hope we will have rain!” said Amarillis. 

“You have been drinking whiskey again!” thun¬ 
dered the padre. “I shall go to the fonda and expel 
the proprietor! How many did he sell you?” 

“N-nine!” said Amarillis, which was the day of 
the month. 

The padre sprang from his chair. “Undress your¬ 
self at once and get into my bed! I will fetch Rosa!” 
and he rushed from the house. 

As he neared the highway, more than twenty of 
the little boys ran toward him into the Chasm Road. 
There was a great din up in the village, rising and 
falling and rising again, blown hither and thither 
by the springtime wind. 

“Has the world gone mad?” he cried. 

“Yes, sir! Yes, sir! She did it! She confessed 


154 TERASSA OF SPAIN 

it! She did it!” cried the little boys around him as 
he ran. 

“Who? What? Amarillis?” shouted the padre. 

In a corner of the highway wall were Tito and 
Jose, clinging to each other and weeping, and he 
stopped short as he came up to them. 

“We did not do it! We did not do it!” they 
screamed, weeping and jumping. “We need not go 
to the almshouse! She did it! She confessed it!” 

“Stop shrieking! Explain yourselves!” ordered 
the padre loudly. But Rosa came running toward 
him, her three plumes waving like a charger’s in the 
breeze. 

“Did Amarillis tell you?” 

“She told me she bought nine! She is ill in my 
bed—go to her!” 

“Nonsense!” cried Rosa. “She has had no drinks, 
but such news would intoxicate anyone! I bade her 
tell you Ines has confessed! It was she that defiled 
the statue, and she is leaving Terassa forever! I 
have been rousing the people against her, and the 
indignation is frightful! She may yet be stoned. 
She thinks that the devil is coming for her to-night, 
so she is going to live in Algeciras, and we will never 
see her again!” 

He could not answer, for the clamour doubled. 
Forth from the square rushed Ines’s cart, and her 
progress downward was a pitiable sight. She was 
standing upright in the laden cart, lashing madly 
at her galloping mule and the mob that ran beside 
her. The exhausted goat was already overthrown, 
and was dragged through the dust by the harness. 
She was bent for the Chasm Road, and when she 


SUB ROSA 


155 


saw the padre standing at the entrance, she began 
screaming at him in her terror: 

“You shall not stop me! I defy you! He shall 
not get me!” But he stood unafraid, with arm up¬ 
raised, and her cart in swerving struck the highway 
wall with a grinding and a clatter. A wheel came 
off, her bedstead was thrown to the ground, and the 
mule, tearing from the traces, hurled the wretched 
goat over the highway wall, whence it vanished down 
into the chasm. Antonito had sprung to save it, but 
it was dead anyway. 

Ines, screaming amid her ruin, had a new inspi¬ 
ration, and hurled herself before the padre in the 
road. 

“Save me!” she shrieked. “I did it! I confess it! 
But forgive me, and plead with the devil for me! 
Tell him I will never sin again! I was going to lead 
a better life in Algeciras! I will persuade you, be¬ 
fore six o’clock!” 

“Woman,” thundered the padre, “stand up and 
go back to your house! I will come to you to-night, 
and I will know whether your heart is truly changed! 
Who told you this wicked nonsense about the devil?” 

But Ines had swooned again, and he turned com- 
mandingly to Rosa. “Explain this! It is no time 
for rejoicing —why are you dressed in those ridicu¬ 
lous clothes?” 

“What?” cried Rosa bitterly. “Do I find you un¬ 
grateful? Have I not kept my promise? Have I 
not cleared your beloved little boys, who lied nobly 
for each other’s sake? And, in doing it, have I not 
reduced that atheist to a jelly of repentance? When 
you should thank me in your gentlest tones, you turn 
upon me and call my lovely clothes ridiculous! I 


156 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


deserve your innocent children more than you do!” 
Bursting into tears, she fell upon them and kissed 
them. They were so astonished that they began to 
weep loudly again, struggling from her embraces to 
the padre’s neck; and as the awe-struck mob melted 
toward Terassa, bearing the unconscious Ines across 
the back of her mule, the four sat weeping on the 
highway wall. 


VI 


APASIONADA 


S HARPER than two sides of the letter A, the 
peak of a mountain was printed up in purple 
against the paper-coloured sky; and next to it an¬ 
other; and on its other side a third; and beyond 
them to the south were four and five; and beyond 
them to the north were six and seven. 

A loon’s cry is the loneliest in the world. 

A great road, wide, narrow, yellow, rolling, snak- 
ish, twisted from them, and to them, and between 
them; downward, perhaps to hell; upward, perhaps 
to heaven; around, as if to the sea; back again into 
the network. 

Spain is the stoniest, dustiest place in the world. 
Above them, glistering the gray and brown wings 
of the loon, as it sailed from isolate water to isolate 
water, the white sky shimmered with the sandlike 
gilt of evening, and whittled the tall peaks to a 
sharper purple, while back of them the sun, as dull 
red as the heavy roses of America, climbed slowly 
backward. 

There is no place in the world so chill, so cold, 
as Spain. 

Duller and more dull, redder and less red, the slow 
sun cut the valleys into halves of ebony and of brass, 
and the crying loon sank away toward hidden water, 
157 


158 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


Than Spain, there is no place in the world more 
desolate. 

As though to write the desolation down, God had 
set a creature of flesh, and a little blood, on a slope 
above the roadway. If he had laid back his head, 
his thoughts might have been in France, for no one 
has ever drawn a cord, from side to side, across the 
Pyrenees; but he was sitting forward, with his thin 
hands clasped before his bent-up knees, like a Vir¬ 
gin’s upon her breasts. 

Than a loon’s cry, a man’s clasped hands are the 
only thing lonelier in the world. 

Blue peaks rose in a far circle around him. Be¬ 
low where he sat eating the last dry crumbs of bread 
and cheese from his pocket, the road stretched on 
still wide and yellow; but he had not passed a town 
since half a week, and there might be none till Spain. 

A dull sound seemed to rise from the earth of the 
rough road. It grew louder, and echoed in a low 
rumbling among the hills. Slowly it grew and grew, 
and he crouched down in terror behind a rock. Peo¬ 
ple and wagons went by—gray figures, indistinct in 
clouds of yellow dust, with a babble of chattering 
and creaking noise. Far ahead, one voice called 
back, and a great jolt stilled the groaning of the 
road. 

The last wagon of the caravan became slowly clear 
below his rock. It was deserted, and he crept down 
to it. The sound of footsteps and voices drew far¬ 
ther and farther away toward the head of the pro¬ 
cession, and he climbed under the shelter of the 
wagon’s canvas. From the sacks and boxes sur¬ 
rounding him there was a heavy smell of fruit, but 
he touched nothing. He was afraid to steal. He 


APASIONADA 


159 


crept among them and fell back, pressing his hand 
slowly and tightly against his heart, as though be¬ 
tween them were something that he could hold close 
for its warmth. 

When he awoke, everything was black. He did 
not know that it was another night. He was stiff, 
and gnawingly hungry. Creeping out in the still¬ 
ness, he saw dim trees all about, and the embers of 
a fire near the wagon. There were bits of meat scat¬ 
tered by it, and he ate voraciously. Through the 
thick wood lights rose and fell, and he crept among 
the trees to the top of a ridge and looked down. In 
a wide hollow there were many people—hundreds, he 
thought—walking around, and lying down, between 
flaming bonfires. Their shadows flared up and down 
in the yellow light like the torch-lit shadows of a 
fiesta, and a moaning song rose from them. It was 
very beautiful, rising and falling like the fires, but 
it had a lonely sound that frightened him, and he 
went away among the trees. He remembered that 
he must speak to them, and ask his way, but he was 
afraid now, and he knew he would be afraid to look 
into the shining eyes of human beings watching his 
approach between the trees. But he remembered 
again that he must speak to them, and ask his way, 
and abruptly, as though carrying his courage in a 
bundle that slipped yet clung under his trembling 
arm, he went down into the camp, and toward a tall 
figure that stood wavering alone by a flickering fire 
in the outskirt. 

“Salute,” he said, and stood waiting for a reply. 

“Salud,” said the gypsy, looking at him coolly. 
“Are you drunk, that you mispronounce Salud?” 

“No,” said the man quickly. “I am not drunk, 


160 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


but I am not Spanish, either. Can you speak 
Italian?” 

“No,” said the gypsy slowly. “But I cannot 
speak Spanish, either. I simply speak. So we are 
quits, and we seem to understand each other a little. 
Are you lost?” 

“I hope not,” said the man, “but I fear so. Amico , 
I am very hungry for food, but not so much as I am 
to know my way. Do you know the road on this 
paper?” And from his pocket he showed a torn 
map, made by hand, and eaten apart by handling. 

The gypsy studied it, holding it down so near to 
the uncertain flames that the man trembled. 

“Have I left France?” he asked, with his breath 
catching. 

“I do not know what you have left,” answered 
the gypsy, with a short laugh, “but I know that you 
are in Spain. As for this map, it is a poor one, but 
you are in the neighbourhood of this cross.” 

“Mio Dio! Grazie! Grazie, mio amico!” cried 
the man, seizing back the paper and laughing. 

“Come, sit down and eat,” said the gypsy, “and 
do not laugh when there is nothing to laugh at. Sleep 
with us to-night, and start out again to-morrow. 
For what do you look?” 

“For Terassa,” said the trembling man. “Have 
you ever heard of a small village called Terassa ?” 

“I have seen it from a tall mountain behind what is 
called the Chasm,” said the gypsy, “but I hope I 
never will go to it. If you are anything like a 
gyP s y> or as bad as one, or if you are running away 
from some crime, or in fact if you are of any spirit 
at all, do not go there, for this town is so good that 
its priest should be kidnapped like a rich baby, and 


APASIONADA 


161 


held for ransom from the pope. We have no more 
use for Terassa than it has for us, for gypsies do 
not like priest-ridden towns, and this village has long 
ears, which the old man pulls as he digs his knees into 
its ribs.’* 

“I had a thought,” said the man, “that it was a 
very large town, with a school in it, like a city.” 

“You think of Terassa, for which it was named,” 
said the gypsy. “That is just out of Barcelona, 
while this lambkin village is farther north, perched 
up like a bird’s nest in the foothills.” 

“I thank you, I thank you!” whispered the man. 
“And if you know all this, do you know if, above it, 
here somewhere in the mountains, there is a house 
where an outlaw lives? I swear I will weep like a 
woman if you do not know, for a lie is worse than a 
handstrike, and I was told that there was such a 
house, with such a man in it, and, Maria help me, 
that he traded sometimes with the gypsies, who knew 
him!” 

“Save your tears,” said the gypsy harshly, “and 
save your reason by pausing for an answer. It is 
good and bad. There was such a man, and we know 
him. His name is Miguel. But he has deserted his 
house, and it has rotted without him for a year. 
Now will you weep, or will you laugh again, like a 
loon? Sit down and eat!” 

“Mio Dio , grazieT 9 cried the man, grasping his 
hand with ten quivering fingers. “If he is burning in 
hell or freezing in heaven, I am glad that he is ab¬ 
sent, for it is his house that I must find, not him! 
Will the road above, leading downward, bring me 
near it?” 

“If you live long enough, yes,” the gypsy an- 


162 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


swered. “But life is hard when one is alone and fool¬ 
ish, in the mountains, and alone you would have to 
go, for we journey north. Sleep with me, and if you 
are not reasonable in the morning, we will start you 
on your way, and find your bones for a souvenir next 
summer.” 

“I will go now,” cried the man, “and pray for you 
if you will not be a bad priest and let me pay the 
prayer now with some money. I have a little.” 

“Put it back in your pocket,” said the gypsy. 
“We may steal now and then, but not from the in¬ 
sane. I will not hold you here to-night for the 
pleasure of it, but I will hold you if I have to with 
this left hand, while with this right I crowd two bread 
crumbs down your throat.” 

And he forced him, by the shoulder, to a sitting 
posture on a shawl by the fire. They ate in silence, 
and then the man, lifting upward the gypsy’s tawny 
hand, and pressing his forehead against it, rose, and, 
with a low Grazie, grazie, amico!” stumbled farther 
and farther away from the flaring lights. 

Once more the world rolled over in its dizzy sleep, 
while the man climbed, and walked, and ran, and sank 
down, and ate berries, and lay on the ground, and 
walked, and climbed, and ran. 

At the next hour of evening, while he stood gaz¬ 
ing hopelessly down through a steep-slanting grove 
of thin, huge trees, a film of deep cloud drew itself 
slowly around the sky, darkening the dark forest, 
and a sound, as rumbling and ominous as the cara¬ 
van’s, approached and approached, and, from above 
him, with a hissing roar, silver sheets torrented down 
and swept between the lines of shaking trees. From 
under a leaning rock, where he cowered with bent 


APASIONADA 


163 


shoulders, he saw the monstrous locust-acacias, in 
their feathery clothing, bending away from and to¬ 
ward each other like gigantic women in a dance; 
and suddenly one beautiful creature, at one loud 
word from God, and one bright look from His eye, 
fell forward among her sisters with one long, bitter 
shriek of her branches, and lay dripping, with star¬ 
ing yellow rents in her great gray body, like a 
bridge overswept by the cascade. As in the gypsy 
wagon, he pressed his hand against his thumping 
heart, as if between the heart and the hand, symbol 
of need and symbol of possession, were something 
that, pressed close enough, could give the shivering 
body a little warmth. 

Before him, intermingling white pieces of mist 
sifted between the trees, forth and back, and up and 
down, and more and more forward and up, as the 
hissing ceased, and more and more thick as the grow¬ 
ing silence echoed with the small, quick sounds of 
diminutive dripping globes of water, which, as the 
white blanket was drawn slowly beyond the trees into 
heaven, gleamed more and more like jewels in the 
renewing light. 

The brilliance dazzled him, and, turning himself 
slowly and weakly under the rock, with a little shud¬ 
der running back between his shoulders, he closed his 
eyes and let his head fall upon his arms, not know¬ 
ing, because of the wetness of his sleeves, that unseen 
jewels glittered forth from the eyes themselves. 
When he opened them, the army of standing trees, 
and the prone pathway of the fallen one, were boldly 
black below a bright-indigo sky in which sharp gold 
specks were sitting, and over the slippery bridge he 


164 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


crept to the edge of the ravine, and, clinging to the 
branches, looked into it. 

From across it, through its darkness, came a 
sound that sent a moment’s clamour to his heart, 
and another terrified shutting to his eyes, which now 
were the only part of him that was dry; but, after 
listening, he knew that it was only an earthly water¬ 
fall, and he sprang dangerously erect on the tree 
trunk, with all the remainder of his exhausted blood 
seeming to rush to his feet as the cataract rushed 
to the stream bed, and, lifting his head up, cried 
aloud, “Mio Dio! Grazie /” and, swinging onto a 
rock, clambered down through the rough underbrush, 
and, skirting the swollen brook, climbed up and up 
beside the waterfall. 

As he went higher and higher, something else 
was climbing, unknown to him, higher and higher, 
too. It was not a man, but it was a thing made by 
the same Mind that had made him, and when he 
reached the top, and, with his heart near stopping, 
saw the small house written black on the rich night 
sky, the bright beginning of the moon, as curved 
and as gently balanced as a boat, was resting in the 
tree that drooped over the roof. It was soft and 
luminous, yet as sharp and perfect as two joined 
tiger claws in a woman’s hair. 

From the slow quietness with which he stepped 
nearer, he might have been thought to wear the un¬ 
clawed paws themselves, for the gnawing fear of 
disappointment tugged him back with the strength 
of a weighted rope; but at last he stood near the 
door, and at last his voice came, calling: “Are you 
there ?”' 

No voice answered him, but his tense ear heard the 


APASIONADA 


165 


sound of cautious footfalls in the little house, and, 
with a great cry of joy, he leaped forward and 
struck open the door, and stood on the sill, with the 
moonlight streaming through ahead of him. Once 
more his left hand went up to his heart. The shad¬ 
ows of three heads shot into the block of light, three 
voices oathed, six hands reached toward him, and 
laid upon him; and the cry with which he sprang 
back and turned, louder than a hurt animal, was full 
of a rage greater than his joy had been, and a pain 
that rang out again and again as he darted away, 
crashing desperately through the bushes, and in¬ 
stinctively hiding his own noise in the shelter of the 
waterfall’s roar as he leaped, step after jolting step, 
down into the blackness of the ravine. 

Surrounded by the dull-silver twilight that crept 
through his house in November, and surrounded, 
also, by ten of his little boys, brooding over their 
natural-history lesson, Padre Pedro lay back in his 
deep chair, sunk in a reverie deeper still. The little 
boys were the ten who were most troublesome in the 
subject of the moment, eight who had no imagina¬ 
tion to spare for it, and two who had altogether too 
much; and the ensuant elements of confusion had 
caused the weary father to command silence for one 
hour, which should be devoted to memorizing two 
passages, about the ostrich and the kangaroo, which 
he thought interesting enough to arouse the most 
backward, while practical enough to restrain the 
enthusiastic. On his own lap he held, instead of a 
book, his silver little dog, Nanette. 

She had been lately given to him by an American 
lady, who, though rich and handsome, was yet in 


166 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


trouble, and whom he had helped and comforted with 
gentle kindliness and wise advice. As the lady was 
a Protestant, he would not accept the votive jewel 
that she proffered; and, therefore, Nanette, her long, 
white hair dampened by a few tears that had trav¬ 
elled all the way from California, had become his 
reward, despite his own protestations, and now lay 
sleeping peacefully beneath his hand, which grew 
slower and slower in its strokings as the silence of 
the little boys increased and his thoughts wandered 
farther back across Terassa’s history. 

There had been no Wine Festival this year, for the 
first one, in the yellow September fourteen months 
ago, had brought him so much sorrow that, in spite 
of its benefit in fame to Terassa, he had been too 
fearful to repeat it, and thought to hold his judg¬ 
ment open for another twelvemonth; and his feelings 
now hung pendulous between regret and satisfaction. 
Truly the great sale of wines had brought shining 
pesetas into Terassa from many countries, even the 
stubborn America,, and Terassa’s little name into 
even that huge country. 

But as truly, too, the festival itself had seared 
his heart in as many directions. On the first day 
of it, the visiting necromancer had nearly shattered, 
with his evil love spells, the union of his beloved 
Antonito and Violeta, the happiest and prettiest hus¬ 
band and wife in northern Spain. But he had cause 
for gratitude in God’s help, by which he had learned 
in good time of the old man’s villainy, and driven 
him from the town. Still, would his heart ever heal 
from the old man’s revenge? He had suborned and 
carried off his lovely Margarita. 

Was she bad in God’s eyes? Was she dead? 


APASIONADA 


167 


Would she come back? Over the quiet books of the 
little boys a sigh floated through the twilight, steal¬ 
ing hopelessly from his nostrils, and, in quick self¬ 
reproof, he bit his lips. Was there not much to be 
thankful for? Tito, his smallest orphan, had run 
away, too, next day, because he had thieved a toy 
from the magician’s booth; but had he not returned, 
and had not his pitiable exposure in the Pyrenees 
brought back, as his protector, the long-lost out¬ 
law, Miguel, and made, from a frightened murderer, 
a worthy man and a good husband? 

But Margarita had not returned, and again he 
caught himself catching back a sigh as he visioned 
the festival, helplessly picturing it as a gayly decked 
and smiling martyr, doomed, in its brilliant ribbons, 
among evil forces. Yet, again, one fortune had been 
brought up the highway by means of the festival, 
and by means, also, of the magician’s flight itself, 
and flourished now, as beautiful as a flower, in Mar¬ 
garita’s house. This was the Parrot Woman, who, 
coming unknown into Terassa with all her little 
green birds, had, in one night, wrapped her rosy 
cloak about the padre’s heart, and left it hanging 
there as secure as the thirty choir robes of his little 
boys. 

Almost a smile quivered on his lips, and, at the 
next sad festival thought it did not, strive as it 
would, quite go away. This thought was of the 
minor festival, which he had held next spring, in 
the poppy fields, for the unveiling of a new statue 
of San Miguel. Here was discovered wickedness, 
indeed, for the expensive figure had been defiled, and 
painted into a likeness of the devil. Moreover, the 
sacrilege had been done by a Terassan. Yet, re- 


168 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


fleeted the padre, good, in its own strange way, had 
come even of that, for the terrible event, and the 
discovery of the guilty, had turned ancient Ines, the 
best lace maker north of Valencia, into a Catholic 
again, after she had turned atheist in the most de¬ 
fiant spirit. 

. Old Rosa had helped to accomplish the reform, 
by taking very stringent measures with Ines, whom 
she hated, and who hated her; and here came in 
another good, for, ever since then, over a period of 
more than six months, Ines, penitent and virtuous, 
had not only gone to every single service at church, 
but had followed Rosa about as a tail follows a 
horse. 

After all, the beautiful autumn Wine Festival, and 
its religious sequel in May, had done no final harm— 
unless, perhaps, Margarita, or the creamy gloss of 
her round, fair name, were truly gone forever from 
Terassa. A third sigh struggled for release from 
him, while to him, as though from far off through 
the dusky light, a different sound seemed to come, 
seeping into his thoughts through his ears. Could 
it be that the little boys were whispering? 

Jose and Tito, the one quite bad, and the other 
quite good, were the pair with too much imagination; 
and, though they loved each other very much, they 
had sometimes to be separated for considerable 
periods, to the end of mutual benefit. But Jose had 
been virtuous, and Tito untempted, all through No¬ 
vember, and the padre forgot the smile which he 
was striving to regain as he realized that, in truth, 
against his urgent instructions, they were convers¬ 
ing in low tones now. 

“Nanette is asleep,” said Jose, “and the padre’s 


APASIONADA 


169 


hand has slipped off her back. Now listen. I think 
Nanette is a rich animal, for she came all the way 
from America, where nobody is poor. You will 
notice her fur is long and gray; just like that of the 
lady who gave her to the padre. Now, the padre 
seems to be asleep, too, and if you will tiptoe over 
and bring Nanette here, we will see if there is not 
money under her fur.” 

“I will not, Jose,” said Tito. 

“Why not?” whispered Jose. “Are you afraid?” 

“I confess it,” said Tito, “for I do not like that 
dog. There is something the matter with it. I 
have looked under the fur myself, and it has buttons 
down the front, like the padre.” 

The padre started so that Nanette, with hurt feel¬ 
ings, jumped off his lap. 

“Tito, did I tell you not to talk?” 

“Yes, padre.” 

“Have I told you, also, not to express your 
opinions ?” 

“Yes, but if you will look, padre - ” 

But his words, and the padre’s, were further 
spared by a sight and a sound — the sight of a figure 
rushing by the window, and the sound of it thudding 
on the sill and against the door. 

As the startled padre rose to his feet, a trembling 
man sprang into the room and stood with gripped 
hands outstretched, while the frightened little boys 
clustered behind him, and Nanette, with a terrified 
yelp, jumped under the chair. 

“Give me harbour,” cried the man, “or I will take 
it! Do you see these hands? Do you know what 
they could do?” 

“I do not fear them,” said the padre, “and per- 



170 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


haps you do not know what God’s power can do. 
One thing that it does is to surround me closer than 
my robe. When you speak to a priest, speak quietly. 
What do you desire of this one?” 

“Harbour!” said the man, steadying himself 
against the wall. “You are the Church, and you can 
give it to me. In the name of your God—and I hate 
Him—I demand it! If I do not have it, I will be 
murdered. There are three men in Terassa now 
who are hunting me! I demand the protection of 
your cloth. I can be seen where I stand now—let 
me get between you and the cupboard!” 

“Sit down in this chair at the window,” said the 
padre sternly. “I do not believe that there are men 
in Terassa to murder you, and, if there are, remem¬ 
ber that murderers fear the Church, and in my 
house you are safe,” and he pushed the man into his 
chair. “Now, tell me this in one word. You know 
your condition better than I do. Can you take wine 
now, or must you eat beforehand? Remember, one 
word!” 

“Wine,” said the man, and lay back in the chair 
with a shudder. 

“Drink this,” said the padre, holding a glass to 
his lips with one hand, while with the other, from 
which the man shrank away as he saw the movement 
of it, he thrust a pillow behind his head. Then he 
turned to the little boys. 

“Go to the church, all of you, and stay there till 
you hear from me. Do not talk of this matter, 
either among yourselves or to any one who may 
question you afterward. Remember. Talk as much 
as you choose of the kangaroo and the ostrich, and 
even of Nanette, if you wish—here, take her with 


APASIONADA 


171 


you—but not two words of this. Go! I will call 
you presently.’’ 

They went out, scared and quiet, Nanette crushed 
under one of Jose’s arms, and Tito under the other; 
and the padre stepped across the room, and back 
again to the man, with a plate in his hand. 

“Eat,” he said, and, drawing a chair opposite to 
him, sat down, and, as his guest ate—slowly, pain¬ 
fully—studied him; his long, thin body, his noble 
head, with its sunken, aquiline face; the mass of 
thick, dull-black hair; the pallid, white skin; the 
wavering lips; the quick, startled eyes, that seemed 
first black, then dark bronze-brown, then the deep 
colour of lapis; the hands, slender and fine, yet 
coarsened by weather and field labour. 

“Speak now,” he said at last. “Tell whatever 
you have to tell, and let it be the truth. When you 
address me, call me ‘padre.’ It is respectful, and I 
like it. There is wine on the floor, below your elbow 
—but drink slowly. Now speak.” 

“I will speak, padre,” said the man. “I am to be 
murdered, but first I will commit murder myself. I 
swear it.” 

“I said to speak the truth,” said the padre, “and 
you tell two lies to begin with. You shall not be 
murdered, and you are not going to commit mur¬ 
der, first, or second, or last. Perhaps I should 
question you, and get at it that way. Are you 
guilty of some crime?” 

“Yes, one—against myself.” 

“What was it?” asked the padre. 

“I loved a woman.” 

“That is not a crime,” said the padre. 


172 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


“I trusted her—that was the crime,” said the 
man. 

“To trust a woman may be foolish, but it is not a 
crime,” said the padre. 

“It was one to trust that woman!” cried the man 
bitterly. “She betrayed me!” 

“Did you betray her first?” asked the padre 
quietly. 

“Mio Dio , I did not! I loved her. I would have 
died for her. And she has sold my life.” 

“Then is it the woman that is to murder you ?” 

“Not with her own hands, but she has set three 
men upon me.” 

“Who is this woman?” 

“I do not know.” 

“But you know her. Answer sensibly.” 

“I do not know her. I saw her in a theatre. I 
looked at her, and I loved her, and she loved me. I 
could have sworn it.” 

“Your words are stormy, and convey no intelli¬ 
gence,” protested the padre. “Your speech is Ital¬ 
ian. Is this theatre in Italy—in Spain?” 

“I am a Sicilian, padre, and the theatre is in 
southern France, where I worked in a vineyard. In 
this theatre I saw the woman dancing, and heard 
her singing, and I knew that she must be mine, or I 
would die.” 

“Did you pay your way into the theatre?” asked 
the padre. 

“I did. I earned three francs a day in the vine¬ 
yard, and I paid two to go into the theatre.” 

“And you having paid two-thirds of your wages 
for the privilege of looking at her in public, she 


APASIONADA 


173 


desires to murder you. She is an unreasonable 
woman,” said the padre. 

“I will tell you, I will tell you!” exclaimed the 
man. “This was a small town, but it had a theatre 
after the like of a larger one, and sometimes per¬ 
formers came to it. I was but a labourer, padre, but 
I had a little savings, and one night I went to the 
play. It was a fine play, though it meant nothing. 
It was music, with two musicians below the platform, 
and dancing, and a trick show. When I saw the 
woman who danced, I loved her right away. You 
may not understand this, for you are a priest, but 
even a priest might understand it for some one else. 
Across the candles on the platform, she looked at 
me, and, as I looked back, I felt sick, and I went 
away.” 

“And came all the way to Spain, crazed?” inquired 
the padre. 

“No, no, padre! I will tell you. I went again to 
the theatre the next night, to look at her again, and 
again she looked at me. And I looked at her all the 
time, and once, as she danced, she smiled at me. Then 
I was sick again; but I did not go away, but waited 
till she gave place to the trick show, and then I 
leaned over to the boy who played the fiddle, and 
asked him if she had any husband. And he said ‘yes.’ 
And I paid him a franc afterward to help me from 
the theatre and bring me some of the way home.” 

“I begin to understand somewhat,” commented 
the padre. “As she had a husband, having been in¬ 
sulted by you, she naturally complained to him, and 
you ran in fear of him from southern France to 
northern Spain. So would I.” 

“Insult her?” cried his visitor. “I would cast to 


174 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


the wind the man who did! And as for running in 
fear, I did so from the little house on the fourth 
mountain back of you, where I was sprung upon by 
her ruffians, but I tell you it was not from fear that I 
tore apart the Pyrenees and climbed through them 
to find that house! I lived then for but one thing; 
and, having lost it through perfidy, I live now, 
thanks to quick eyes and quick muscles, for one 
thing else ! 55 

“I think you have been at Miguel’s house,” said 
the padre. “Why were you hunting for that?” 

“Your questions thicken my brain,” cried the man 
in feeble protest, and he sank back again in the 
chair. 

“Forgive me,” said the padre. “When one con¬ 
verses with a man who both fears murder and intends 
to commit it, one will be inquisitive. Speak on as 
you choose, and I will be as silent as I can.” 

“For a third time,” said the man, “I went to the 
theatre. And this night I paid in three francs at the 
door, so that I might sit alone in a raised seat next 
the platform. And, as I waited for the play, I 
determined that I would not be sick, which would 
be foolish, for it was only joy that had made me so. 
But I was, padre, for, as she danced to the music 
that I sang afterward to myself all the way through 
the mountains, she threw a flower at me, and it 
touched my face, and fell into my hand. The peo¬ 
ple laughed, and I laughed, to deceive them, and so 
did she, but all the time I was holding the flower down 
at my side, crushing it tight and rolling it in my 
fingers, as I would have crushed her in my arms, and 
she saw, and, as I watched her eyes, I knew that she, 
too, was sick, like me, and she fell backward a little, 


APASIONADA 


175 


and stopped dancing. I was going to jump across 
to catch her, but the man who had the trick show 
ran from the side onto the platform, and caught 
her. I think she did not like his catching her, for 
she jumped away from him, and began dancing 
again, and laughed, and made the people think she 
had put it in the play.” 

“Go on,” said the padre. 

“When he went away, she deceived the people 
again by closing one eye at them and tilting her head 
boldly at me, and then wrote something, with a pen¬ 
cil, on a piece of paper, and threw the paper to me. 
And she, and I, and the people laughed, but I was 
dizzy again, for there I held her message in my hand, 
and I had to make a motion to her that I could not 
read.” 

“You talk like a man who could read,” said the 
padre. 

“I am glad, padre, that she thought I looked so. 
She understood, and before her dance was over she 
had stepped, clashing her tambourine, quite close to 
me, and motioned her head toward the fiddle boy, 
and said: ‘To-morrow night.’ And the next night, 
as I sat early in that seat again, this boy came over 
to me, and gave me a long message—far longer than 
she could have written on that paper. It was that, 
if I loved her as she hoped, she must run away from 
her husband, for she was married by the Church, 
and he watched her jealously—so much, that if he 
found her coquetting he cursed her and threatened 
the law. But for my sake she would risk husband, 
and Church, and law, and meet me, to be mine for 
good, if I loved her enough. 

“This I could prove if I would journey a long dis- 


176 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


tance, to the house of an outlaw, who would befriend 
her, and me, too, for her sake, and to this house she 
would go, by a devious route, after her husband had 
brought her back to Barcelona, whence she could 
escape him as she could not from a little town. I 
made the boy say this over and over, and he gave 
me, also, a large paper from her. This, the boy 
said, was a map, and a map, padre, I can read. It 
had a big cross on it for the town where we were, and 
another for Terassa, and a red one for the outlaw’s 
house. And the end of her message was that, if I 
would do all this—and she would put on me the 
curse of the three generations if I lied—I must show 
some love, already proven, by displaying the flower 
she had tossed to me the night before. If I did not 
have it about me, she would forget me; and if I did, 
and would obey her message, I should hold it in my 
hand in the light of the candles. 

“When I knew all this message, padre, I was very 
sick again—more than ever before. But the boy 
laughed and talked quickly, so that the people com¬ 
ing in suspected nothing, and I gave him some of my 
money, and when he had gone below, and the candles 
were lighted, I had got the flower out of my shirt, 
and was holding it in my hand where she could see it, 
near the candles.” 

“Your story is an evil one,” said the padre, “but 
good may come of evil. Go on.” 

“I do not remember that night,” said the man, 
“except that she saw the flower, and that we looked 
and looked at each other, and that once the fiddle 
boy made a sign to me that her husband was watch¬ 
ing; and, in truth, I saw that the old man of the 
trick show was staring at me from across.” 


APASIONADA 


177 


“The old man?” asked the padre sharply. “What 
was his show?” 

“Sleight of hand, and two marionetti.” 

“Mi Dios! Go on!” cried the padre, growing 
white. 

“There is no more, padre. As cold as though I 
was naked, but more weak from joy than from fa¬ 
tigue, I found that house, and, as if it covered a tun¬ 
nel from hell, three men sprang upon me. She be¬ 
trayed me.” 

“Forget your betrayal for a moment,” exclaimed 
the padre, “and tell me this: Do you know her 
name?” 

“I do not,” said the man, “but the boy told me 
that for the play she called herself ‘The Pearl of the 
Pyrenees.’ ” 

“Dios, I will soon be convinced!” cried the padre, 
gripping the sides of his chair. “What was the 
flower that she threw to you? Would it be a yellow 
rose?” 

“I do not know the name of it,” answered the man, 
“but it was not a rose. To keep the people laughing 
when she threw it to me, she told them it was ‘the 
crazy carrot of Queen Anne.’ That, of course, 
means nothing, but what is left of it you can see 
for yourself.” And he threw open his jacket, and 
then his tattered shirt, and drew a shrivelled green- 
and-white thing from where it lay against the black 
hair on his chest. 

“The lace flower—I am sure of it!” breathed the 
padre. “When she threw it to you, was it fresh and 
beautiful, like a round piece of new lace?” 

“I think so,” said the man, “but I did not examine 
it. I was crushing it in my hand.” 


178 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


“If I could look at the paper that she threw to 
you, I could be sure,” said the padre eagerly, “for 
I would know the writing. Have you it?” 

“No,” said the man, “I ate it.” 

“Ate it?” exclaimed the padre. “Why?” 

“Because the words on it were hers, and, as she 
put them down, her little finger touched the paper.” 

“Such love, if it is love, is madness!” cried Padre 
Pedro, rising and pacing swiftly about the room. 
“My son, you do not know whom you love, but I do, 
and I could tell you her name.” 

“Let her stay nameless,” replied the man, “for a 
corpse is nobody, and I am going to kill her.” 

The padre halted in front of him. 

“What you say about that, my son, is of no im¬ 
portance just now, for you are not only in my house, 
but in my power, too, unless you are strong enough 
to kill me, which I doubt. Now, consider that, and 
answer one more question. Did you say that she 
was truly married to the old man—married in 
church?” 

“I did, and she was. Such was the message she 
sent me. Else she would not have been afraid to 
meet me right there, and run away with me. So the 
boy said. She was afraid of the law, because she 
was married in church.” 

“For so much, I thank God!” ejaculated the 
padre. 

“And for so much, I hate Him!” cried the man 
angrily. 

“Do you hate me?” demanded the padre, turn¬ 
ing toward him commandingly. 

The man stared at him wonderingly. 

“Answer me.” 


APASIONADA 


179 


“No, padre. You are kind and good. So kind 
and good that I did not fear to speak.” 

“Then be yourself so kind and good that you fear 
to kill, and fear to hate God. Fear one more thing: 
fear me. Fear and love are close together, and I 
tell you now to fear me or love me, one or the other, 
enough to obey me for the present. Did you say she 
was going back to Barcelona?” 

“Yes, padre.” 

“To-night, then, you shall sleep not here, but in 
Antonito’s house. Antonito is one of my finest citi¬ 
zens, and he and his wife will care for you as well 
as I could. To-morrow you will be in a better mind, 
and we will discuss the whole matter, leaving out the 
question of murder. To-night I must be busy. Will 
you obey me?” 

“Padre, padre!” cried the man desperately, seiz¬ 
ing his gown in both hands. “I am afraid to leave 
your house! I am not afraid of death, but I am 
afraid to die without knowing certainly whether she 
betrayed me! I would obey you, but have I not told 
you that the three men are in Terassa ?” 

“You have told me so,” answered the padre, “but 
I do not believe you. Be still a moment.” He 
stepped to the door and, putting his hands about his 
mouth, called Jose from the church. “Tell the rest 
to go home,” he said, “and go yourself to Antonito’s 
quickly, and send him to me. Good night, my dear. 
Kiss me, and run.” 

As he turned back into the room, he found the 
haggard man’s eyes gazing at him helplessly, over 
lips that quivered between striving to speak and 
striving to hold speech back; and he laid a pitying 
hand on his matted, black hair. 


180 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


“What troubles you now, my son?” 

“The men! I spoke the truth, padre! I know 
that they are here, for I saw them!” 

The padre looked keenly into his fearful eyes. 

“You are sure of this? Where did you see them?” 

“At your inn. When I crept into the town, I went 
there, hoping I would have courage enough to show 
my face and ask for food, and I saw them. I swear 
it! They were sitting in the vestibule, drinking.” 

The padre’s face grew grave, but his voice was 
cheerful, as he answered: 

“If this is so, I will have more work to do. But 
you will not, my son; and, as for the question of 
your future work, there will be some for you in 
Terassa, so that you need feel no sense of charity in 
accepting our harbour while you have to. That was 
a pretty word that you used—‘harbour.’ While 
you stay in it, I must speak to you by name. What 
do you call yourself?” 

“Francisco,” said the man. 

“Francisco, a Spanish name? Are you not 
Italian?” 

“It was Francesco. But she is Spanish, and I 
changed it.” 

A footfall sounded to them from the Chasm Road, 
and Francisco bounded from the chair and crouched 
behind it. 

“Your fright is needless,” said the padre. “I 
know the step. It is Antonito’s. Sit down again, 
Francisco.” 

As he finished speaking, the yellow-haired Anto- 
nito pushed open the door, and stood looking in won¬ 
der from the padre to the stranger. 

“Antonito,” said the padre, “please clasp the two 


APASXONADA 


181 


hands of this man, and listen to me. He loves Mar¬ 
garita, and is in trouble because of it. And you, 
Francisco, listen to this: Antonito is a man whom 
Margarita loved, or thought she loved, before she 
ran away, and she tried to do much harm to him, 
and to his wife. Yet you see he is a strong and 
handsome man, and a happy one. You, too, may 
be a strong and happy man, by doing right. Anto¬ 
nito, take him home with you and be his friend. 
Give him clothes, and a bed, and tell him of Terassa, 
and the poppy fields, and the little boys, and enter¬ 
tain him till I come to your house. If he is molested 
on the way, use your hands, and your lungs, and 
stones if necessary. Take this candlestick. It fell 
off this shelf onto my head once, and I remember 
nothing except how effective it was. To-night I 
shall start for Barcelona, and I shall stop at your 
house on the way.” 

And the two strange companions, glancing cu¬ 
riously at each other, went out, the padre accom¬ 
panying them as far as the highway, where they 
turned down toward Antonito’s house, and where he 
turned upward, plodding to the square, and across 
the village green to the inn. 

Despite the dreary season and the dullness of the 
twilit hour, there were seven people seated at the lit¬ 
tle tables that stood always, save in rain or a cold 
winter, both in the vestibule and on the gravelway 
below it. 

Four were women, sitting on the lower chairs; 
and, in the swift glance that he cast about as he 
approached, the padre saw that the remaining trio 
were grouped together at a table in the portico; 
and, in selecting his chair, he took one near to them. 


182 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


Of the four women, three, like the men, were seated 
together, drinking and talking with animation, but 
such was his anxiety for his errand that, though he 
recognized them, he gave them no heed, and, in 
straining his ears toward the vociferous men, paused 
only for a sad look at the fourth woman, whose 
brown, unfortunate-looking dress matched the deso¬ 
late expresison of her face. He pitied the staring 
vacancy of her eyes, as they gazed across her un¬ 
touched glass; but a man’s life, not a woman’s pov¬ 
erty, was his necessity now, and he leaned back, 
striving to understand the mixed converse of the 
men behind him. 

But he gathered nothing from it, owing to the low¬ 
ness of their Neapolitan dialect, and the height of 
the voices pitched over the table beyond him. The 
three ladies who sat about it were elderly—so elderly 
that, added together, they would have been at least 
twice as old as any one else in Terassa. They 
were Old Rosa, and Ancient Ines, and Amarillis, who 
was so small that it was hard to see her face, for 
which reason she had escaped a byword for her 
name, the only big thing about her. They were 
bending their three heads over the table, enjoying 
three glassfuls of wine, and discussing three things, 
namely, the Trinity. Rosa was loudest, though Ines 
was loud, and Amarillis was as silent as she was al¬ 
lowed to be, speaking only when she had to agree 
with one or the other, and saying “yes” or “no” to 
the demand of either, hoping always that she would 
soon be scolded by both at once, which might dis¬ 
tract their attention to each other. 

The three men ordered more wine, and, as they 
poured it, the padre ventured to look at them. They 


APASIONADA 


183 


were not drunk, he thought; and ill-clothed as they 
were, they touched glasses together like men of a 
better class, or else of a needy purpose, and he 
hoped to hear their toast; but Rosa’s voice, sud¬ 
denly higher than ever, drowned it: 

“Take care, Ines! Remember how I used to hate 
you, and I will hate you again in a moment if you 
are saucy to me on that point, which I tell you I got 
from the padre! We will have each one more glass, 
and before we finish the contents I will either con¬ 
vince you or punish you, one or the other!” And 
she turned to summon the proprietor. 

“Have done!” called the padre, with quick impa¬ 
tience. “If you must discuss religion, which you are 
not clever enough to do justice to, do so in your 
houses, where I cannot hear you, for you do not im¬ 
press me favourably at all! If you are too selfish to 
entertain each other with your own wine, consider 
that you spend more in this public drinking! Go 
home!” 

“Pay no attention to him, Ines, darling,” said 
Rosa loudly. “We will show whether we are selfish 
with either our wines or our money! We will throw 
aloft these coins, and the one who loses must pay 
for all three. Jose showed me how to do it. Now, 
if my coin falls with this side up, I need not pay; 
and if your coin falls with the same side up, you 
need not pay; and if they fall with different sides up, 
Amarillis will have to pay.” 

“Cease this wickedness and go home,” cried the 
padre indignantly, “or Jose and you, too, will pay, 
with a certain side up!” 

And the three ladies, Ines and Amarillis very much 


184 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


embarrassed, and Rosa with head upheld and tight¬ 
ened lips, proceeded away. 

Shedding his frown and donning a friendly smile, 
the padre switched his chair toward the three rough 
men. 

“I note that you are strangers,” he said. “Do 
you like our little town?” 

They gaped at him a moment, and then one of 
them answered: 

“Si, signore. It is a very fine town, and sells a 
good wine.” 

“I trust that it will be good for you,” replied the 
padre. “With aliens, it is sometimes too familiar. 
Let me be intimate enough myself to comment upon 
your speech, which shows discernment. I spoke 
to you in the best Italian I could muster, and in 
reply you used the high Italian, putting an V upon 
the word ‘ signor.' Such politeness might well lead 
me to hope that you have come to Terassa with some 
good and worthy purpose. Then have you?” 

“Si, si, signore!” replied the questioned man, and 
his two companions murmured after him “Si, signor” 
and stumbled along to add “e!” “e!” in haste. 

“I am sorry,” said the padre, “that having called 
me ‘Signore,’ you should follow such politeness with 
a lie. This time speak the truth: Do vou love 
God?” 

“Si, si, signore, si!” cried the men hastily, looking 
at each other. 

“As men who love Him, you do not seem to know 
Him very well,” said the padre. “Let me educate 
you a little, by telling you that not only does He 
know your purpose in coming here, but that He has 
given me a knowledge of it, too. Am I right? You 


APASIONADA 


185 


came here to murder, if you could, a man named 
Francesco, whom you attacked in a little house far 
up in the mountains. Let me tell you two things 
else—one is, that you are going to leave Terassa 
now, while I sit here and watch you go, and the 
other is that, if Francesco meets his death at either 
your hands or your instigation, four souls will leave 
this flesh instead of one, and three of them will go 
to a place wickeder than your kind can make this 
world. Now leave for anywhere you choose; and 
if you pause on the road, let it be to reflect that 
you must answer yourselves if hell is your destina¬ 
tion !” 

With a skin as white with wrath as their own with 
slant-eyed terror, he sat flecking his boot with the 
tassel of his gown, as they slunk past him and across 
the green. 

As their ragged backs vanished into the highway 
he rose, clenching his hands, and with a quick, in¬ 
drawn breath, took a step forward, but a voice 
arrested him, and, turning sharply, he met the gaze 
of the forgotten drablike woman, who faced him 
from behind her lonely table. 

“I thank you for that,” she said. “I never would 
have supposed that I would have to thank a priest 
for anything, even marriage, but I thank you for 
that!” 

Padre Pedro stared at her, marvelling at her 
swift, impulsive words. Then, at his astonished 
face, she laughed, and before the sound had ceased 
to vibrate through his heart he had sprung across 
and caught her to his breast. 

“I thank God!” he cried, straining her to him. 
“I thank God ! I have been answered! I have said a 


186 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


thousand times, ‘She will come back,’ and even to¬ 
day, as I sat among my little boys, I lost faith! 
Forgive me, my Father!” 

And with tears running into his neck he bent 
over her, passing his great hand over her brown, un¬ 
kempt hair, and striving to see, through the blur 
before his eyes, into the great sunken dark ones that 
he had not recognized. 

But she struggled away from him. 

“Let me go!” she cried. “I have not come back! 
I am some one else! Did the girl who ran away 
from you have dirty clothes? Did she have sunken 
eyes? Was she ugly? If I had been she, would you 
have stared into my face and not known her? Let 
me go, for I have not come back to Terassa; but, 
tell me this, or I will hate you: How did you know 
of him? Where is he? How did you know those men 
were murderers? Answer me, or I will strike you!” 

“Will you break my heart over again?” cried the 
padre bitterly. “Did you not hear me tell them God 
had put the knowledge in my hands?” 

“How did he put it there?” she demanded wildly. 
“Have you seen him? Did you hear of him? Has 
the old man been here? You learned it in some real 
way! Shall you expect me to believe in magic, when 
I have lived a year with a magician?” 

“My dear, my dear, come with me to my house,” 
pleaded the padre, “and there we will talk with quiet¬ 
ness !” 

“Tell me here, and let me go!” she cried. “It is 
all I ask of you! Is he in the mountains ? Have 
you talked with him? Be merciful, and tell me so 
much, and let me go! I will get down on my knees 
if you ask it, and own that I was wicked to you long 


APASIONADA 


187 


ago! But I will not go to your house, for I am 
afraid of you! You would strive to change me, and 
I will not be changed! You prevented me when I 
tried to love Antonito, and you would strive to pre¬ 
vent me in this. In the other I was wrong, but now 
I am some one else, and the three men, and the old 
man, and you, and the King of Spain shall not inter¬ 
fere with me! See how I plead with you! Tell me 
what you know of him!” 

“I will talk with you about him if you will come 
with me to my house,” said the padre quietly. 

“Tell me now! Tell me, and see me vanish, and 
forget me! Your house is a long way off, and I am 
weak.” 

“It is quite near, and I am strong,” answered the 
padre, and abruptly lifted her in his arms, and 
carried her across the green, down the highway, into 
the Chasm Road, into his house. 

She lay passive, her desperate eyes closed, in the 
great chair; but she sat tensely up as she heard him 
stirring about the room. 

“Bring me no wine and no food, padre! I will 
not drink or eat till you have told me what you 
know—not if you sit and watch me starve and thirst 
to death!” 

The padre sank heavily on the opposite chair, and 
faced her as he had faced Francisco. 

“I said I would talk to you about him, and I will, 
against my judgment. This much you shall know, 
and no more, for the present. I have seen him; he 
is safe; the men do not know where he is; he is not 
in Miguel’s house. He has told me his story; you 
have made him suffer bitterly; and I intend to make 


188 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


a good man of him, as I intend to make a good 
woman of you.” 

“Santo Dios! Then he is in Terassa!” she cried, 
and leaped from the chair and seized his arm and 
shook it. “Tell me where? In what house is he?” 

. “I will not tell you. Sit down. I have said.” 

From long ago she knew the finality of his tone, 
and sank back, with a little moan, into the chair, and 
lay there silent, staring past his eyes as she had 
stared, at the inn, over her empty glass. 

“My dear one,” said the padre, leaning forward 
and tenderly taking her thin, cold hand in his large 
warm fingers, “tell me, if you will, about this matter. 
Be truthful with me, for I have had the truth from 
Francisco.” 

She turned her great eyes strangely upon his. 

“I did not even know his name,” she said. “When 
I heard you say it at the inn, did I not grow dizzy 
down to my feet? Then will you say this is not 
love? I love him!” 

“You thought you loved Antonito,” said the 
padre. 

She laughed. “I have told you I tried to do wrong 
there. I own it again, to show you that I know what 
love is now.” 

“Why do you love him?” 

“I looked at him.” 

“That is no reason,” said the padre. 

“It is the only one there is, and that one is enough 
for me. You said to me: ‘I have seen him.’ That 
should be enough to satisfy you. I looked at him. 
1 have said.” 

“Such love, if it is love, is wrong,” said the padre. 


APASIONADA 


189 


She flashed her eyes at him, and her words poured 
forth like loosened grain. 

“Shall you tell me what is right or wrong? I do 
not blame you, for I confess, as I have confessed, 
that I wronged you once in a love matter! But 
not having seen me since I ran away, shall you sit 
there and tell me that I do not know the moon from 
a candle? The mere sight of my clothes should tell 
you that I have been dragged at least part way 
through the world, and though you were able to 
hurl all the churches in the world at my emotion, 
you would not be able to tell me whether or not it 
was there!” and she struck her bony hand against 
her breast. 

“I did not tell you that it was not there,” said 
the padre. “I told you that it was wrong.” 

“Again do you say that? Why? In my turn I 
ask it! Why?” 

“There are ten commandments,” said the padre. 
“Can you remember seven of them?” 

“Oh ! Oh! Oh! I should not have come home with 
you!” she moaned. “I knew that you would try to 
interfere! Did I ask your blessing? Have you any¬ 
thing to do with it, except to tell me where he is?” 

“Yes,” said the padre gently, “I have one thing, 
if no more, to do with it. I have to make you calm 
and quiet before you go to sleep to-night in your 
house.” 

“Calm? Quiet? Sleep? Sleep in my own house?” 
She slipped to the floor and knelt before him, clutch¬ 
ing his gown with ironlike fingers. “I defy you as to 
all that! In my turn I shall ask questions, and have 
them answered, and say what shall be and what shall 
not! It is but just! If I were a man or an educated 


190 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


woman, I would walk through the streets of the 
world and talk against a church that forbids me to 
love! When God, if there is one, bade me to love 
as I do, shall His own Church bid me not to? 
Listen to this: When I go to bed—or to a barn—to 
sleep, I do not sleep, but have dreams instead. Since 
I saw this man, I have had visions. Have you ever 
seen a blue sky? Answer me, or I will scream at 
you!” 

“I have,” gasped the padre. 

“So you have seen a blue sky! How truthful you 
are! Well, have you ever seen nasturtium flowers? 
Do you remember their colours, from when I grew 
them once in my little greenhouse?” 

“I do, my dear, I do!” 

“Hear this, then: In my visions, I see his whole 
white body lying among nasturtiums—millions and 
millions of them stretching to the sea—the great 
Mediterranean Sea—under a blue sky. His limbs 
look like four long, rolling mountains rising from 
them, and his breathing bosom like a quiet earth that 
might be presently a volcano, and his black hair, 
falling back among the light-green stems, like the 
darkness that lives on the bottom side of the world, 
brought up to crown him in the daytime! And, 
in this vision, I myself seem to be that sky, bending 
over him, and down through the black side of the 
world and up again, in a complete circle, so that 
he cannot be stolen from me anywhere! He is 
mine, I tell you! And you, tell me this: Do you 
doubt now that I love him? Did I have such thoughts 
before, when I lived as one of your townspeople, and 
in my foolishness complained at the littleness of 
this town? Will you tell me that I have not 


APASIONADA 


191 


changed? Did I think such thoughts, and feel such 
things, when I tried, as I have confessed, and con¬ 
fess again I did, to wrong your Antonito and his sim¬ 
ple Violet a ?” 

“I have listened to you,” said the padre, with an 
effort. “Will you listen again to me? I beseech 
you! I wish that you would go home to your little 
house. Will you not do that for me? Since you 
ran away, I have prayed, and, God pardon me, I 
have also said, sometimes angrily, that you would 
come back. For to-night, will you not stay in your 
house? For fourteen months, there has been no 
day that I have not thought of you, and for four¬ 
teen months there has been no night that God has 
not heard me say: ‘Send her, if You will, back!’ 
And it is evident that He, and, perhaps, Marfa, 
heard each time, for back you have come. Will you 
not go to your own house? It is waiting for you, 
my beloved!” 

“Where is he?” she asked, and laughed. 

“I asked you a question,” said the padre, “and 
you were not kind enough to answer it. My dear, 
I am so weary that when I say five words to you I 
am saying ten—five of them to God: ‘Keep me 
strong, and wise . 5 I have faith that I am strong 
and wise now in saying to you that, whether you 
were bad or good, I would have joy in seeing you 
once more within your four white walls. They have 
held some one else almost ever since you have been 
gone, but she knows that the house is yours, and 
would welcome you there, and go somewhere else to¬ 
morrow.” 

“She need not go, for before to-morrow I will 
have found him,” she answered. 


192 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


“How can you,” cried the padre, “when I will not 
tell you where he is, and will not leave you till you 
have gone to sleep? My plan was that he should 
stay here in Terassa till his mind was fed, while I 
went to hunt for you in Barcelona. Afterward I 
could have thought what was best for his good, and 
what was best for yours. But you shall not meet 
him here, even if, to prevent it, I should have to go 
to Barcelona to-night, after all, and ship him home 
to Sicily !” 

“Santo Dios , how dare you?” she cried, springing 
up. “The boy betrayed us to the old man, and now 
you betray us ! I should not have thanked you at the 
inn! I knew as I spoke that I was a fool—it would 
have been better if I had gone on to the little house 
of Miguel in the mountains, and killed myself, not 
finding him there! What wrong have I done you? 
I will not confess again about Antonito, for the num¬ 
ber of my confessions should be enough for even a 
priest. Is there anything else that is making you 
cruel to me? Can it be the money that the matter 
cost you?” 

He motioned a trembling hand at her, but she 
did not see it, for she was tugging at the fastenings 
of her dress. 

“Despite my despicable gown, I have money be¬ 
tween it and myself. I think I know the sum you 
paid to the old man to go away. I can hear your 
voice now, as you justly vilified him on the green: 
‘Two hundred pesetas and two!’ ‘Four hundred 
pesetas and four!’ Is my memory good?” And she 
drew a knotted handkerchief, weighted with coins, 
from her gown. 

“Put back your purse!” stammered the padre. 


APASIONADA 


193 


“Where is he?” she cried, holding up a handful of 
coins. “Do not shrink from them, for I earned 
them. I stole them from him the night I ran away 
from him. But it was not stealing. I wish it were, 
that I might think I had done some wrong to him. 
I had earned it—by dancing and singing, and by 
blows. There were, I confess, but two blows—one 
from one hand and one from the other before I 
could catch it. But those two were worth two 
pesetas ! Take back what my husband cost you, and 
be honest with me then!” 

She hurled the uplifted handful of coins at him, 
and they stung his gown and slid down onto the floor. 

“Where is he?” and she flung another handful. 

“My heart, my heart!” wept the padre, bowing 
his head into his hands and rocking helplessly in the 
metal shower. 

Suddenly feeling the handkerchief empty in her 
hands, and seeing his tears upon his gown and his 
great fingers, she laughed, and tossed the bit of cloth 
at him. 

“You need it!” she said, and sank down into the 
chair, weakly closing her eyes. 

“My child,” he said presently, “I wish only that 
you would be sanctified. I do not despise your love. 
But for its sake you demand a terrible thing of me— 
one that I would never grant. You ask me to coun¬ 
tenance something that is a crime in God’s eyes.” 

“I do not ask you to countenance it, or to so 
much as glance at it at all!” she answered. “I ask 
you only to tell me where he is, and, having told me, 
allow me to go and vanish with him. Again I say, 
have you anything to do with it?” 

“You do not understand,” exclaimed the padre. 


194 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


“First of all, you were my orphan, and I loved you. 
Second, you were beautiful, and rather naughty. 
Third, you ran away. Then have I no interest or 
right in you? May I not, before God, demand you 
back? Can you, looking at these reasons, chide me 
if I keep asking you to go home to your pretty little 
house?” 

She looked at him with a strange expression gath¬ 
ering gradually in her eyes, and increasing a smile 
that played more and more upon her lips. 

“You said that you would wish to see me ‘sancti¬ 
fied’?” 

“I did, my dear.” 

Her smile, and her eyes, grew wider. 

“I believe,” she said slowly, “that you would wish 
to make a virgin of me.” 

“My dear, I am not God,” said Padre Pedro. 

“You would not have to be,” she answered. 

Through a long moment they gazed into each 
other’s eyes in silence. 

“But, my beloved, you were married to the old 
man, were you not? Then-” 

“I would have cut his throat,” said Margarita. 

When the padre spoke again, it was with his hands 
clasped and his eyes uplifted. 

“How sad is this world, my Father? Did she not 
teach me sadness long ago? Have I not learned 
more from her to-night? Is there more of it that 
I shall learn from her?” 

“‘Sad’? ‘Sadness’? Are those your words?” she 
cried angrily. “At the news I have given you—if 
you were dull enough to find it news—should you 
not be glad? Does it not leave me free, even in 



APASIONADA 


195 


jour blind eyes? Will you now not let me—allow¬ 
ing that it were your province to let me or not-•” 

“I will not,” he said. 

“Shall you even stop my words with one stub¬ 
born word? Shall I not speak myself out? While 
you try to cut off all the rest of my body which you 
think your own God made, are you not satisfied to 
let my tongue remain? You say, knowing that I am 
as I was when I left Terassa, that you will not, if 
you can prevent it, let me go to this man. Why? 
Answer me! Why? Why? Why?” 

“My dear one,” he said, twisting his hands tensely 
together, “you would not listen to me if I answered 
that. But perhaps you will listen if I ask you this: 
If you were free to marry, if you were even free to 
love, would you marry, could you love, a man whose 
feeling for you permitted him to wish to murder you? 
My daughter, I would not lie to you to save either 
your body or your soul, and, in my desperate need 
of words, I tell you now that when he found you 
absent from the little house, and was set upon by the 
three men, he came madly on to Terassa in the hope 
of killing you!” 

“I do not blame him,” she answered, with a short 
laugh. “If he thought that I had done it, what else 
would you have had him desire to do ? Have you no 
intelligence at all? If I had done that, I would 
deserve murder—not with a knife, as I suppose he 
would do it, but with a club. And I tell you, more¬ 
over, padre, that if he saw me he would not murder 
me, or even start to. As I ran toward him he would 
know that my bare heart was open before me for 
his knife, or his club, or his foot, whichever he chose; 



196 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


and do you know what would strike it? His own 
heart. I have said.” 

Again the padre clasped his hands and lifted up 
his eyes; and when his lips stopped moving, and he 
looked at her again, he saw that she was staring, as 
at the inn she had stared over her glass, past him, 
her own lips motionless, but parted. 

Her eyes seemed fastened upon the darkness that 
had been creeping slowly across the oblong of the 
window; and when, after a long moment, they had 
not moved, with a throb of fear he turned and looked 
out as she was looking. 

From the thick, black night, Francisco’s face was 
gazing in, its eyes fastened, staring, as hers were 
fastened, its lips parted, motionless, like hers. Then 
the face vanished, and reappeared in the doorway. 

He was holding the beautiful, heavy candlestick 
in one hand, upraised, and the other reached out 
toward her, clutching. 

The padre sprang at him, and threw his arms 
about him, pinioning him. 

“I did not do it!” screamed Margarita at him. 

“Go home!” cried the padre to her. “Go to your 
own house—jump out of the window, and run! I 
can hold him no longer!” 

And as she leaped over the sill and vanished into 
the darkness, with a sudden gasping effort he 
wrenched the candlestick from Francisco’s hand and 
beat him with it down into the chair, and, as the sob¬ 
bing man fell back exhausted, turned and flung it, 
shuddering, out through the window. 

As he himself sank down, he again, bowing his 
head in his hands, wept. 

“To what have you brought me?” he sobbed. 


APASIONADA 


197 


“That ever a priest should strike a man, and with 
a weapon! It stood for seven nights, with a pretty 
light in it, in my church, when a sacred candlestick 
had been stolen! Francisco, Francisco, what have 
you done to me?” 

“I do not know,” wept Francisco. “To you, I 
did not mean to do anything!” 

“Did you not promise me you would stay in Anto- 
nito’s house ?* 

“I do not know whether I promised that or not,” 
said Francisco wearily. “I confess I felt as if I had 
promised that, but I could not stay shut up in any 
house! I crept out while they were making supper. 
I wanted to come here to you, because you had 
spoken kindly to me, and no one had ever spoken 
kindly to me before. I swear it. And I swear that 
I brought the candlestick only because I was afraid 
of the three men.” 

“And you tried to kill my child with it!” said the 
padre. “Did you hear what she screamed to you as 
you tried—that she had not done it? It was the 
boy that betrayed you, and I do not know that I 
so very much blame him. Perhaps he was striving 
to do right, as I am!” 

“I thank God! I thank God!” cried Francisco, 
reaching his arms upward and half rising from the 
great chair. “And I thank you, padre, for saying 
so, for I was too mad to believe or understand her! 
All I understood was your telling her to run to her 
own house. Where is it? Which house is it? I will 
fall on my knees there and eat the candlestick! 
Respectful or not, padre, I demand of you—I de¬ 
mand, I demand—that you should tell me!” 

“My dear,” said the padre, laying a trembling 


198 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


hand upon his, “I will not. Francisco, I speak 
kindly to you now. Are not what you have learned, 
and your remorse at having tried to kill her, enough 
to sleep with for at least to-night? Will you not 
return to Antonito’s house? If you will not to obey 
me, will you not to please me?’ 

“I will, yes, I will,” moaned Francisco desperately; 
and presently leaving the house, they went, leaning 
heavily against each other, up the Chasm Road. 

Diagonally across from Antonito’s prosperous 
house, there is a smaller one—much smaller, but very 
attractive, with its four neatly whitewashed walls, 
and its little filigree balcony just under the low roof 
—and situated, moreover, between two delightful 
objects: its small greenhouse on one side, and, on 
the other, a delicate locust tree, weedlike and youth¬ 
ful, but struggling earnestly, with more and more 
success each year, to become a gaunt and towering 
acacia, such as the mountains have. 

Within, the Parrot Woman was sitting, humming 
softly as she guiltily disobeyed the padre’s instruc¬ 
tions not to do needlework by candlelight, her quick 
eyes watching her quick fingers speed deftly to the 
end of a lace nightgown. Presently she rose, smooth¬ 
ing her firm, rapid hand down the sleeves, and the 
dazzling white network of the neck, and laid it by 
on the bed with her breath flickering, like the can¬ 
dles, into a sigh half satisfaction, half regret. Then 
her eyes caught the dead blackness of the window, 
and, with a start, and a sudden little cry of remorse, 
she ran toward it and leaned out. 

“Come in, my dears, come in!” she called. “While 
we have a roof, shall we not live under it?” 


APASIONADA 


199 


And from the branches of the locust her battalion 
of little green birds lifted among the remaining 
leaves and fled in by her, clustering on their great 
cage in the corner. 

She stood gazing down at them as their shivering 
feathers quieted and grew still. 

“Mes pawvres , it was my fault! Did I tell you 
to play in the tree till I called you, and leave you 
there in the cold, dark November? The padre would 
tell us that one wrong thing brings on another. I 
worked when I should not, and so forgot to call you 
when I should! But see, my dears, what a pretty 
work I did. Go over and look at it! Come! Walk 
about on it if you like, and see. But be careful of 
the little claws, for it is the finest I have done. Yes? 
I thank you, mes cheries! You shall have no lesson 
to-night. Come sit with me now. You shall have 
supper when I have rested. And meantime you shall 
walk over me as you choose. Anywhere—my hair 
anywhere. So! Have we not been happy here in 
this lovely house? How glad we should be, when it 
is so chilly!” 

As if to boldly answer her—as if November had 
in person swept down to the little house—the door 
whirled open, and a woman stood before her, wind¬ 
like, erect, startled in the dim but too sudden light, 
and, as a real gust clattered the harsh door close 
again, the Parrot Woman rose in slow wonder from 
her chair, instinctively raising her bird-dotted arms 
before her, and the two stood gazing at each other 
speechlessly. 

After a long moment of the heavy silence, her arms 
fell against her sides in an action so limp that two 
of the love birds fell off them, thudding on the 


200 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


floor, and presently limped desolately away toward 
the empty cage. 

At last, haltingly, in a voice very low, the Parrot 
Woman said: 

“You have come back. You are Margarita.” 

The heavily breathing woman, swaying a little in 
her trailing, dirty brown dress, did not answer; 
and, abruptly straightening her drooped shoulders, 
the Parrot Woman shook off the rest of the little 
green birds and stepped quickly forward to her. 

“Forgive me, dear! Will you think that I have 
not expected you? Do not speak. Do not speak 
at all, until I have undressed you. How tired you 
are! How far you must have come, to look so 
tired!” Holding one of her hands, and with an arm 
about her waist, she drew her over to the bed. “Say 
nothing yet. We will sit on the edge here for a 
moment. Close your eyes if you like, or else sit 
and look about at your own house. Yes, I would 
have known you anywhere. Something would have 
told me. Yet you are different from the sweet young 
girl I thought of. I have thought of you so much, 
and talked about you so often and often with the 
padre. I had always thought you would be pretty, 
and you are not. You are beautiful, instead. How 
odd I must look beside you! Where did you gather 
the great lines under your eyes? How they frame 
those great, black fires you have! And at your 
years—for I know your age, dear, and when your 
birthday is. You are eighteen. You were, two 
months ago. I am sure the padre does not think so, 
for you were seventeen when you went away, and 
I know that you could not exist for him save in 
the gown you wore, and with the number of weeks 


APASIONADA 


201 


in your life that he had counted. Are you hungry? 
Will you sit here, or lie down, while I bring you 
some food?” 

Margarita laughed. 

“You are right about the padre. He did not 
know me. Yes, I was pretty when I left. Do you 
make sport of the lines under my eyes?” 

“Sport?” said the Parrot Woman gently. “I 
would as quickly make sport of the Madonna. You 
are lovely—as lovely as Violeta, only you are more 
like the deep, warm summer night. But you must 
not speak yet. See, I can reach this glass of wine 
without leaving you. Do you care—that I have 
tasted it? We will call it that I was toasting you, 
though we did not know it. And I have often done 
so purposely. I did so on your birthday, and so did 
the padre—he and I together. Old Rosa scolded us 
unmercifully, but I saw her afterward stealing a 
sip that was left in our glass, and she broke it in 
her anger when she saw me smiling. How glad she 
will be! Do you like the way I have kept your house? 
Nothing is changed, except the walls, which I re¬ 
whited myself. And your greenhouse—ah, how I 
bungled at first!—but it is in fine order now. I 
broke a glass the very first week by dropping a tur¬ 
nip through it, but my first good piece of lace re¬ 
placed it. As for your own lace, all that you left is 
there in the cupboard, with new lavender in. How 
I studied it! But I was very careful. And, see, how 
much I have learned from it—do you like this? It is 
very strange: I made this for you, to have waiting, 
and when I finished it and laid it here on your bed, 
you came! Now I know why I was tempted to work 
too long to-night—good has come of it!” 


202 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


“The padre would not say so,” said Margarita. 

“Ah, yes, he would, my dear. How faithful he 
has been to you—as faithful as he has been good to 
me. Do you know my name? I came here nameless, 
and because of something that the padre and I 
understood together, he has called me, ever since, 
‘Simpatica.’ Will you call me so?” 

Again, with a leap of bitter fire in her eyes, Mar¬ 
garita laughed. 

“Why not ‘God,’ or ‘Goldfish,’ or something else 
ridiculous? ‘Simpatica’? There is no such thing!” 

“How sad you are!” exclaimed the Parrot Woman. 
“Come, you have finished your wine—let me take off 
your dress. How far you must have walked in it!” 

“I have walked very little in it, but I have run 
enough,” said Margarita. “It was a thousand years, 
if not a whole thousand miles. Leave it on! I shall 
not take it off until I find him!” 

“Very well, dear,” said the Parrot Woman, drop¬ 
ping her hands from the fastenings of the gown, and 
putting her arm about her waist again. “I had 
thought it might help to rest you. I will never 
forget how far I had walked when I came here, and 
the feeling of old Rosa’s lace nightdress when she had 
taken off my dusty clothes from me. It was because 
I remembered so well that I made this one for you. 
Will you look at what else I have made? Would it 
amuse you? Will you look at a white mantilla that 
I struggled over?” 

“Yes! Yes! Show me that!” cried Margarita 
excitedly, and suddenly laughing again; and the 
Parrot Woman rose and fetched from the cupboard 
a long, waving piece of frosty workmanship. 

As it floated through the room on her outstretched 


APASIONADA 


203 


arms, a new light came, through the balcony open¬ 
ing, into the little house, and flooded through it, 
shimmering on the whiteness like radiance on a 
snow bank. With a cry Margarita seized it and 
flung it over her, and ran madly up the steps to the 
balcony and stood there, staring up at the newly 
risen full moon. 

“Where is he?” she demanded, stamping her foot 
at it. “Tell me, you! Are you, too, swayed by the 
padre as I am swayed? Shall he control you? Has 
he told you not to tell me? Where do you see Fran¬ 
cisco? He is somewhere near! Your sight is ex¬ 
actly the colour of green nasturtium stems! Where 
are you shining on him ? How big were you when he 
found the little house? Did you see the three men 
spring on him? Did you help him? Or did you 
shine on him and try to betray him as he ran away? 
So you will not tell me? So you are afraid of the 
padre?” With a fierce movement of her fingers she 
dragged the delicate lace into a hard knot under 
her chin, and stood holding it tensely with one hand, 
while she pointed the other upward at the great sil¬ 
ver disk. “If you must not tell me where he is, tell 
me this! Answer me! Am I to die in this white man¬ 
tilla, or a black one? Which? Tell me that! Will 
you? Will you?” 

Simpatica, who had softly mounted the steps be¬ 
hind her, circled her gently with her arms, and drew 
her down into the room, the torn mantilla dragging 
back over the poor, brown dress. 

“Talk to me, dear,” she pleaded. “Talk to me. 
It might help you. I am not so powerful as the 
moon, my dear, but at least I will answer you when 


204 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


you wish me to. Will you not talk to me? Will you 
not call me by my name?” 

“I would call you Maria in Excelsis if you would 
answer me this: Where is he?” 

“I do not know, my dear. Will you not tell me of 
him?” 

“You would ask me questions! You would inter¬ 
rupt me, like the padre!” 

“I will not interrupt you, dear. Will you not 
speak?” 

“Yes, yes, I will!” cried Margarita. “But will you 
listen?” And, lifting her clenched fist, she struck her, 
with each question, on the shoulder: “Will you lis¬ 
ten? Will you listen?” 

Turning from the Chasm Road into the highway, 
the padre led Francisco down toward Antonito’s. 
He glanced with apprehension at the dim light filter¬ 
ing from the Parrot Woman’s house, fearing that 
Margarita’s voice might rise and stream out with 
it; but they heard nothing, save quick footsteps in 
Violeta’s garden, as they entered it, and then Anto¬ 
nito’s voice in the darkness. 

“You have him? Oh, padre, I am glad! Forgive 
me! I was coming to you. I feared to face you. 
We do not know how he got away! Yioleta re¬ 
proached me, and made me start to tell you!” 

“Take his other arm,” said the padre, and to¬ 
gether they brought him in, and sat him down, while 
Violeta, her great, purple eyes deepening with pity, 
brought a hot meal, and set it before him. 

“I will not eat,” said Francisco, “until I have seen 
her. You shall not make me, nor shall the padre. 


APASIONADA 


205 


What right have you, padre, to keep me from her? 
What right ?” 

Hot tears sprang into the padre’s eyes. “Hear 
me finally!” he exclaimed. “My right is that I have 
no right not to keep you from her. She was mar¬ 
ried by the Church, and I am a priest. Even if your 
love were what it should be, you would have no right 
to her, and you never will have while the old man 
lives. And I say this—I, who can tell you in all 
friendliness, Francisco, that, rightly or wrongly, I 
have often wished that he was dead.” 

“I would gladly attend to that,” said Francisco, 
“if I could find him.” 

“Hear me out,” said the padre, “for you must 
understand me. This afternoon I intended that you 
should stay in Teressa and have work to do, and 
learn to be a good man—but that you should learn 
that somewhere else if I found her, and could per¬ 
suade her back here. Now that she has come, I do 
not know what to do, for she shall stay here, and 
therefore you may not. I do not wish to lose you; 
but in a choice between my daughter and you, my 
son, my choice is simple. And when you have slept, 
and I have, we can talk of your future. I cannot 
stop your loving her, but, with God’s help, I can 
keep you from her while her husband lives. Think, 
Francisco; he is an old man. When God, in His 
wisdom, has taken him away, if you still loved her, 
and she then wished you to, I would have no right to 
stand between you, even if I could. But until that 
time I shall keep you apart, if my Father keeps me 
strong enough!” 

“You are a bad priest!” shouted Francisco. Then 
he sank back in his chair. 


206 TERASSA OF SPAIN 

“Amigo ” said Violeta gently, seating herself be¬ 
side him and quietly taking his fallen hand in both 
of hers, “let me speak to you of something. He is 
not a bad priest. He is the best priest in Spain. 
He is the best priest in the whole world, except the 
pope. Let me tell you what he did similar to this, 
to prevent a married person doing wrong, and an¬ 
other from being wronged. She whom you love so— 
and she was my foster sister—tried once to wrong 
me through my husband there, thinking she loved 
him, and she used a wicked love spell to her purpose. 
This has been never uttered between my husband and 
me before”—she spoke on quietly, her eyes lowered 
upon Francisco, away from Antonito’s crimsoned 
face—“and I speak now but to show you what the 
padre is, and what he strives to do for you and her. 
He stopped her, not to save me from madness, but 
to do right, and so he saved me. But let me tell you 
this: On that very day, when I had stormed wick¬ 
edly at the padre, and cried that I would throw 
stones at her, the Virgin came to me and told me 
something, and, when I believed her, I forgot my 
wrong, I forgot everything in the world except my 
husband and her message,” and Violeta pointed across 
the room to the cradle of her sleeping child. “Fran¬ 
cisco, that is what the padre means, even if he could 
not say it to you as a woman can. It is wrong, 
usually, to wish for any one’s death, but wait, Fran¬ 
cisco, for the old man’s death. Can you understand? 
You cannot doubt that I love my husband; but I 
would rather sit holding my child beside my hus¬ 
band’s grave, than love my husband, having had no 
child.” 

“There is a love,” said Francisco, beginning a 


APASIONADA 


207 


laugh and trailing it into a solemn tone that matched 
the growing look of distance in his eyes, “that is 
beyond the love that makes children.” 

“My son, how do you say these things ?” exclaimed 
the padre. “I do not approve of what you say, for, 
in your case, it is wicked, but I say to you that you, 
who cannot read, speak as a man of too much learn¬ 
ing. How do you think and speak these things ?” 

“I do not know,” said Francisco. 

“If you did,” said the padre, “you would too much 
respect yourself, and the love you feel, to name your 
emotion basely.” 

“My emotion is not base!” cried Francisco. “I 
defy you there, I defy you! Read forever, and think 
deeply forever, and I will still defy you!” 

“Hush!” said the padre softly. “Perhaps I can¬ 
not understand your love, and perhaps I can, but 
I know that you do not understand mine for you, 
or you would not be angry and desperate with me.” 

“I am not angry with you,” said Francisco, fall¬ 
ing back in his chair again, “and I thank you, and I 
thank God, for your blessed words, which were never 
said to me before. But I wish that they had come 
from her instead.” And he laughed. 

“But at least,” said Violeta, “they have come 
from him, and there is a way to be grateful. Please 
him by drinking this wine. I can understand how 
you cannot bear to swallow food, but a little wine is 
easy. Indeed, I saw you drink some from my own 
hand when Antonito brought you here. Will you 
not?” 

He took the glass from her and half raised it. 

“She is right, my son,” said the padre. “It will 
help you to sleep.” 


208 TERASSA OF SPAIN 

Francisco lowered the glass and glanced at him 
sharply. 

“Is there a potion in it?” he demanded. 

“No!” exclaimed the padre. There was almost 
impatience in his unhappy tone. “We have no po¬ 
tions in Terassa! I do not allow them! There was 
a kind of potion in my village once, and they proved 
enough!” 

“Forgive me, padre,” whispered Francisco, “for 
I had said I would not sleep until I saw her,” and he 
drank. 

He said no more, and they sat in silence, Violeta 
rocking the cradle, Antonito and the padre gazing 
through the window, Francisco staring before him 
with fixed eyes. When, after a long stillness, the 
padre glanced at him again, his hands were quiet, his 
lids shut and untwitching. Violeta, too, was look¬ 
ing at him, and, as she met the padre’s eyes, she rose 
and came softly across. 

“Have I done wrong?” she asked, in a low voice. 
“You were mistaken, padre. There was a potion in 
it. Do you not remember—when the child was near 
to death, and I was frantic? You fetched a drug 
from Barcelona, and it made me sleep while the doc¬ 
tor cut the child. There was some left. Have I 
done wrong?” 

“You do always right, my Violeta,” sighed the 
padre. 

“Wrong or right,” said Francisco, opening his 
eyes, “you h ave played a trick upon me! That was 
wicked! It closed my lids down, and put stones on 
my arms, but I can hear you. You are wicked!” 

With a huge effort that wrought a cry from him 
he struggled up, and, with a strange laugh, began 


APASIONADA 


209 


to sway from foot to foot, snapping his fingers 
crisply at his sides. 

“I will show you whether I will sleep before I 
find her!” 

And he broke into a slow whistle that grew faster 
and faster, as it cadenced from his lips and led his 
snapping fingers into the mad rhythm of castanets, 
and his feet into the light, thudding tread of a 
woman’s dance. 

Suddenly his voice replaced the lilting melody. 

“It was at that note that she nearly fell, when 
she looked at me and was sick!” 

And he stumbled backward. Antonito caught him, 
and, staggering forward with the dragging weight, 
dropped him, face downward, on the bed. 

The padre ran over, and, having turned the head 
and wiped the shining beads from the sleeping face, 
lifted up his own with a great, deep breath. 

“I thank thee, God! Mi Dios , gracias! Now I 
can go to her,” he added, and, kissing Violeta, 
stepped into the moonlighted garden, and went 
across the highway to the Parrot Woman’s house. 

As he entered and closed the door behind him, 
Margarita rose from the bed and rushed at him, 
the floating mantilla brushing a swirl of parrots 
from Simpatica’s gown. 

“Where is he? Did you prevent his killing me so 
that you could enjoy doing it yourself? The candle¬ 
stick would have been quicker, at least! Rosa has 
been here, and crosser than I ever knew her, but let 
me tell you that that hag is kinder than you are! 
She says you are a fool!” 

The padre turned and pressed the hand that Sim- 
patica had slid under his arm. 


210 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


“Has she eaten?” 

“Not yet, but she will,” said the Parrot Woman. 
“She has promised me she will. Have you not, dear? 
Padre, will you not leave her to me? She is safe 
here. Trust me, and rest, I beg of you. Go, or she 
will say things that she would not mean, but that 
would hurt you!” 

“Yes,” cried Margarita, “go! I detest you, and 
I despise you! And I do mean what I say! I hate 
you! Go !” And the padre went silently, and walked 
heavily downward toward the poppy fields, and sank 
upon the doorstep of Old Rosa’s house. She had 
heard his tread, and was waiting in the dim-lit door¬ 
way; and she seated herself beside him as quietly as 
if he had come on his daily visit at noontide. 

“The road is not yellow,” she said presently, “but 
I suppose I may talk as crossly as if the sun were 
out. Do you know that you are foolish to act feeble, 
when you are twenty years younger than I am? But 
if you must think yourself a child, put your head 
on my shoulder, instead of against the door-frame. 
They are equally sharp, perhaps, but this way is 
more friendly. Do not speak. Yioleta and Sim- 
patica have told me of their two maniacs, and 
I think I could tell them something about mine. Is 
that cross? I could not tell them that there are 
more tears in me on account of your weariness than 
on account of Margarita and her bandit put to¬ 
gether. And why not put them together, for that 
matter? I could tell you, if I chose, that they are 
less at fault than you. And I say this, who con¬ 
demned her so! You can tell me a hundred reasons 
why I am wrong. I know that. But the sight of her 
was so pitiable! Even I, whom you forever call hard 


APASIONADA 


211 


and disagreeable, had at least a stone tear rolling 
down my heart.” 

“They must not see each other,” said the padre. 

“Let me confess to you,” said Rosa, “that I did 
you a wrong when I saw her. I told her that I 
thought you were a fool. That was a sin—not say¬ 
ing so, but saying so to her. Is it a sin to say it 
to you? If it is, then I shall sin, and be glad of it.” 

“Rosa, my heart’s friend,” answered the padre, “I 
may be a foolish priest, but I am a priest. I know 
that many times you have proved wiser than I. But 
this is not a matter for your wisdom. The Church 
is the Church, and I am its servant. A poor servant 
I may be, and of little help to it, but obeyed it I 
always have, and obey it I always will. I came to 
you for comfort. Well, I have had a little. You 
are learning gentleness. You are gentle toward 
Margarita.” 

“Why do you rise?” pleaded Rosa. “Will you 
not rest? I have something to tell you. Once I 
quarrelled with you about her, and you said that 
when she came back I would kiss her, if you had to 
force me to. Padre, I have kissed her.” 

“I am glad of that,” said the padre. “Alas, I 
should have sent her to your house—yet I knew she 
would not go to you, and if I brought her now, she 
would suspect why. They are too near together. 
I must leave you now. I must watch.” 

“Stay, oh, I beg of you, stay!” cried Rosa. “I 
would never call you a fool again if you would stay a 
little, and lie down!” 

“I must judge, Rosa,” said the padre, and walked 
up the highway. 

As he stepped cautiously into Antonito’s house he 


212 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


saw, beyond the chair in which Antonito lay, the gen¬ 
tle, shadowed swaying of the cradle beside Violeta, 
who sat, rocking it with her foot, in the dim light of 
one small candle. 

“He is still asleep?” whispered the padre. 

“You may rest, padre. He is still asleep.” 

“I am not asleep,” said Francisco’s voice, in the 
darkness. “I am helpless, but I am not asleep. Her 
voice called from somewhere, and, if I had slept, 
which God forgive me I cannot be sure of, then it 
waked me. I heard her voice. I swear it. And it 
called me by name—Francisco. I could not answer, 
for I do not know her name. You could tell me now, 
but you are wicked and cruel, and I will not ask you, 
for I must save my voice to whistle with if she calls 
again. You have tricked me, and I cannot move; 
but I am awake, and if I knew where she was, I swear 
to you I would be able to get up and run to her.” 

The padre drew Violeta to the door. 

“I will go out. If I stayed here, he would try to 
talk to me. At least he cannot move. Thank God 
for that. I will walk up and down outside.” 

“Stop talking,” said Francisco’s voice. “I might 
not hear her if she called. Go away!” 

“God be with you, Francisco!” whispered the 
padre, and, dropping Violeta’s hand, he went softly 
out into the highway. 

There was not even a dim light streaming now 
from the window of the Parrot Woman’s house, and, 
as he walked up and down, up and down, the great, 
round, green rose-window of the world, the moon, 
went surely nearer and nearer the mountains, toward 
Miguel’s house. At last he could not see, through 
the blackness, the least dim shine of Violeta’s candle, 


APASIONADA 


213 


and, as he walked up and down, and up and down, he 
once struck his hip against the highway wall that 
guarded him from the valley, and once the gate ol 
Violeta’s garden caught his sleeve. 

Once he heard Margarita’s voice above and be¬ 
hind him, saying, he thought, “Francisco!” and 
turning, he thought he saw, even in the thick black¬ 
ness, something white that might have been the ghost 
of a mantilla in her balcony. 

Once he heard Francisco’s whistle, rhythmic, faint, 
cadencing, yet with a little breath of trouble in its 
lovely music, like a gasp, or an oath, or a shudder. 

Once something came up the highway toward him, 
and laid a faltering hand upon his shoulder. 

“Go home, padre, go home! Must I, at seventy 
years, spend a night of weeping and fright, when 
you, so much younger, could save me from it, by 
merely going home? I beseech you! Padre, padre! 
Let me walk up and down, if walking up and down 
does any good!” 

“Go home, go home,” he said, and, with a little 
sob, she went away, and he walked up and down. 

When the sun came, flooding the valley with tre¬ 
mendous light, and yellowing the highway so that 
it might have been a gaudy ribbon trailing back 
from the purple mountain, he saw some little figures 
walking, like himself, up and down. They were some 
of Simpatica’s love birds, who had crept out to seek 
seeds in the road before she was awake enough to 
stop them, and when he had gathered them up, gently 
chiding them, and turned about to see if there were 
further sinners, he thought that he saw just one 
more, a dark speck down the highway. But it was 
too large, he thought—too swift for a bird that tried 


214 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


to use its feet; and as he stepped quickly forward he 
knew that it was a bent, birdlike figure hundreds of 
feet away, running madly toward him in the glit¬ 
tering morning light. 

“Santo Dios!” he breathed, with set teeth; and as 
the old man, with bent, unseeing head, fled on within 
his reach, he seized him by the shoulders in a pas¬ 
sionate grasp. 

“Old man,” he cried, “once before I met you as 
you tried to enter this town! You shall never enter 
it again! You have come to get your wife, but you 
shall not! You stole from me then, but you shall 
not steal from me to-day! Did you not learn to 
fear me when I chastised you on the green? You re¬ 
venged yourself upon me, and upon God, perhaps, 
for that, but you shall have no more revenge!” 

He hurled him away, and stood breathing heavily 
before him in the road, threatening him with his out¬ 
stretched hands; but the old man paid no heed to 
him, for a cry had come from Antonito’s house, and 
a man rushed through the garden into the highway, 
and as he ran toward the old man, the old man ran 
toward him. 

The three cried out together: Francisco, and the 
old man, and the padre. And two others cried out 
as they ran near—Rosa and the Parrot Woman. 

Francisco fell upon him with his desperate hands; 
yet the old man squirmed from them, and, running a 
few paces off, turned and ran back toward him, and 
something in his uplifted fist flashed a bright silver 
light into the surrounding eyes. 

But, from above them, something else flashed, too 
—out, straight as the overbeam of a gibbet, down, 


APASIONADA 


215 


straight as a gibbet’s upright; and the silver gleam 
vanished in a cloud of brown and white. 

The knife appeared again, but it was not silver; 
and, as Rosa and the Parrot Woman, screaming, 
seized the old man by his arms and dragged him 
away, madly beating him, the padre, moaning, 
slipped to a sitting posture and drew her against his 
breast, leaning her head on his shoulder, and striving 
to keep his frantic hands quiet and tender as he lifted 
her across his lap. 

“My beloved! My own! My Margarita!” he 
wept. 

Margarita laughed. 

“A white mantilla!” she said. “Yet it has a little 
colour on it now, if it could not be black. See Fran¬ 
cisco, standing there with his mouth open, and say¬ 
ing nothing. There is nothing to say, Francisco, 
so do not try. You could say only one thing, and 
that I know already. We said it, without speaking, 
in the theatre. You said it again in going to the 
little house. I have died for you. Mi Dios , I thank 
you for letting me do that for him! The padre could 
not stop that much! Forgive me, padre. And let 
me die happily. I have lived with a laugh, and I have 
sworn always that I would die with a kiss. Padre, 
padre, let me have it! Think how far he travelled! 
Think how tired he is! You hold me here in your 
arms, and though pain is easy, I am helpless! I can 
struggle against you no longer. Be kind, padre! 
Let me have one kiss, just as I die!” 

The trembling padre lifted up his face. 

“Pity me, my Father, if I am doing wrong! I 
give you leave, my darling!” 

A great satisfied light suffused her eyes as she 


216 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


drank in the words; and Francisco, moaning, tot¬ 
tered nearer to them and bent over her. 

But, with a hand feebly lifted against him, Mar¬ 
garita smiled. 

“Francisco, my Francisco, what good could this 
body, with a great tear in it, do you now? As I must 
die having had but one kiss, let it be to—the padre!” 

She said nothing more, unless with her lips, 
silently, to the padre’s, which whispered, a moment 
later: “She is dead.” 


VII 


SPANISHING HANS 


S TRANGERS are always welcomed in Terassa, 
because it must never be said against Spain 
that one of her humblest towns would ever be un¬ 
kind to some one; but Hans seemed very unusual 
there, and, in a few of the older Terassans, opinions 
would not stay silent. Ramero, who had maintained 
year after year that he was two hundred years old, 
said that no German should be permitted to stay, 
and cited many dreadful actions of the Moors, who, 
he mentioned, had been positive foreigners before 
they came to Spain; and the next-oldest citizen, 
Ramero’s granddaughter-in-law, was reported to 
have said: “Germans are disreputable.” But Padre 
Pedro, whose justice never failed in matters of dis¬ 
pute, said that Hans must be treated with kindness 
until he was better known, especially as he was under 
the difficulty of a foreign tongue. 

When he came, he could say but two words in 
Spanish, pan , and vino. Soon afterward, he learned 
yo , which was natural enough because it was so 
similar to ja —in its own way, though of so differ¬ 
ent possibilities. And, before three days were out, 
he said to Padre Pedro, on the highway: “Como te 
siente?” 

Old Rosa was sitting on her doorstep at the 
time, and exclaimed loudly, as the padre sat down 
beside her: “Shall he say thou to you?” 

217 


218 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


“If he understood, I am glad he wishes to be 
affectionate,” replied the padre, “and if he did 
not know, shall jour thoughts be harsh to a new 
Terassan?” 

Now that Hans was one year old among them, 
he was respected to the extent that if a stranger, 
or some one from another town, spoke against him, 
there was great indignation; but there were still 
some dislikes and prejudices left in certain quar¬ 
ters. For instance, Rosa, whose character was not 
above jealousy where the padre was concerned, did 
not hesitate to talk freely in his disfavour; where¬ 
as Ines, who for years had been considered mali¬ 
cious, was so strong in his behalf that Rosa felt 
justified in reproving her before witnesses. 

“A woman of eighty,” she said, “should not be so 
frivolous about a young man of twenty or twenty- 
two, and who is a coward at that.” 

“Come, Rosa!” cried Ines. “I am but your own 
age, and, despite your appearance, you are under 
eighty! And who knows that he is a coward?” 

“It is known that he ran from Germany to avoid 
the army!” said Rosa. 

“ Come, come!” interrupted the padre, who had 
overheard this quarrel. “You would run yourself to 
avoid an army!” 

“I am a woman of courage,” cried Rosa, “and 
you have reason to know it, on account of that 
time when I so kindly went with you to Barcelona, 
and was put in jail for hitting the soldier! You 
know yourself that he was six feet tall, and yet he 
did not hit me back, the coward, although I am 
so pitiably thin and old! And you know also that 
I showed courage while in prison, terrified as I was, 


SPANISHING HANS 


219 


for I would not be a craven, or ask anybody’s par¬ 
don like the rest of the jailbirds! The whole after¬ 
noon, I did not say one pleasant thing!” 

“That I know, Rosa,” said the padre, “but what 
has it to do with Hans’s merit?” 

Yet he appreciated that there was some excuse 
for coldness toward Hans, for Antonito, the master 
of the fields where the padre’s thirty little boys 
planted the poppies, had for a whole generation been 
the only man in Terassa who had golden hair. Yet 
even this resentment was quieted by the padre. 

“Hans’s hair is not at all like Antonito’s,” he said. 
“You have seen German silver. Well, it is not like 
our rich, solid Spanish silver, is it? Then if you 
look carefully, you will see that Hans’s hair, pretty 
as I think it to be, is what we might call German 
gold!” 

As to the thirty little boys, they prized Hans 
very much, for they were always fond of strangers, 
and that he could not speak Spanish filled them with 
pity and politeness; and Guillermo and Bernardo, 
who had never been very fond of people, were assid¬ 
uous in their attentions to him, spelling out words, 
in the noon-hour, into the dirt of the highway, with 
appropriate gestures. 

Amarillis, also, seemed strangely to be Hans’s 
friend. Amarillis was known as far away as several 
towns in every direction on account of two things— 
her diminutive size, and her silence. Since the death 
of her husband, which had caused embarrassment 
because she was too timid to report it, she had 
not enjoyed any male companionship, which was 
natural enough, for she was in the neighbourhood of 
sixty-eight years of age. Yet Jose, and several 


220 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


other of the little boys, saw her seated with Hans, 
one noon-time, in one of the vineyards, side by side 
with him, and one of his hands was clasping one 
of hers, both of these hands being in her lap. It 
was learned afterward that neither one had ever 
spoken even one word to the other; but such is the 
wickedness of human beings, even Spanish ones, that 
it was rumoured about that they had been con¬ 
versing. 

Simpatica, who lived with her trained birds in 
Margarita’s small white house, refused firmly to 
attend this scandal, and at all opportunities urged 
kindliness toward Hans. 

“Rosa,” she said, clasping her gently to her side 
as they walked up the highway, “do you remember 
when I first came to Terassa, a stranger, and tired, 
and frightened, and how gentle and good you were 
to me? And I was two foreigners—French and 
Italian!” 

“I was cross to you,” said Rosa, “till I found 
you were the most lovely character of my acquaint¬ 
ance. You must admit it took me only a few min¬ 
utes, and Hans has been here for a year!” 

Yet these matters did not trouble the padre, who 
was averse to gossip; and as for Hans, his disposi¬ 
tion seemed very simple, inclining to bread, a great 
many grapes of the Malaga kind, and constant 
attendance at church, where he confessed, regularly, 
almost nothing. The padre was always delighted at 
characters of such sweetness; and that Hans should 
prove a font of sorrow, or even of plain trouble, 
was beyond his most imaginative thoughts. 

“But,” said the padre afterward, “life is prob¬ 
lematical !” 


SPANISHING HANS 


221 


It was in an afternoon as peaceful and as pretty 
as a vision, that the mystery swam, in a dark urgent 
line, across the lovely colours of his view, in which 
the green and yellow vineyards of Terassa’s hill 
drooped down in soft lines to the pink and purple 
stretches of the valley. 

His thoughts had been gay and cheerful ones, 
even their sprinkling of doubtful sadness inclining 
into a lenient smile; for they happened to be of 
the merriest girl among his people, a favourite of 
Terassa and of himself, as loving toward him as 
she was light toward religion and her future. 

This was Juanita, whom he always likened to a 
flag: for she dressed frequently in red and yellow, 
and, even when she did not, her disposition swirled 
her about like a breeze and fluttered her out of 
mischief as deftly as it blew her in. Her confes¬ 
sions, gratifyingly frank as he could wish them, 
were yet a trial; for they were so infrequent, com¬ 
ing as they did mainly on the day of the saint 
whom she named her patroness, that they were of 
abnormally long duration; and additionally embar¬ 
rassing for him because their morbid particularity 
would always concern matters of a frivolous and 
unchurchly nature. Even as he reflected, he felt 
his frown twitch toward a widening of his lips; 
and he hastened this tendency away by reverting 
to his one true sadness over her: Juanita did not 
marry. 

She was so pretty that her young years seemed 
long in her single condition. Alas! it must be that 
she was indeed too light, for all her natural popu¬ 
larity. Men, it would seem, admired laughter in 
unmarried women; the gayest of them would be for 


222 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


sedateness in their wives. His own doubt of her, 
poignant once only, had been in the love-smoke 
matter of the wicked old magician, who had wrought 
harm till it piled up into heartbreak. Then, too true, 
she had snuffed up potions with the zest of a ter¬ 
rier; yet her red and yellow had waved as gayly 
afterward, and with a great gladness he had known 
their inner warp and woof to be as white as ever. 
Gracias a Dios , reckless terriers were sturdy charac¬ 
ters, needing much chloroform really to kill them! 
And he fondly lifted up his silver little dog Nanette 
as he stood gazing through his window, and was 
tingling his fingers through her soft, metallic fur 
when he saw, like a blot in the midst of the fair land¬ 
scape God had painted, a black-swathed, unlikely 
figure approaching his house through the pleasant 
sunshine of the Chasm Road. 

Ominous on such a golden day, it was unfamiliar 
in its doleful draperies, yet strangely fond and 
homelike to his puzzled eyes; and, as the mystery, 
with bowed head and limp hands, resolved itself in 
passing by his window, a great shock held him mo¬ 
tionless, for the sorrowful appearance was that 
of Juanita. 

Her weeds astounded him: she had no kinsfolk, 
beyond a great uncle in the oyster business at 
Madrid; and of him she was always disrespectful, 
because his profits of some three or four dollars 
weekly, he spent in riotous living. It was true, the 
padre remembered, that, with her very vain eye 
to her beauty, she had always been in favour of 
black, but in each case relieved by quantities of 
crimson or another hue of impudent nature; and 
in no instance had her hem trailed upon the ground. 


SPANISHING HANS 


223 


Indeed . . . But, swift as his fright had made his 
thoughts, it was now her second feeble knock that 
reached his ears; and, facing alarmedly towards her 
tidings, he strode forward and threw open his door. 

Her hands hanging in front of her, she stood 
before him in the droop of her mournful vestments, 
as if her young beauty, the cheeks washed of their 
too-frequent rouge, had been portrayed in solitary 
face and arms with white paints, on a black sky 
as deep and murky as her sorrow, which crept onto 
the picture itself in deep ruts beneath her lowered 
eyes. 

“Juanita!” he cried anxiously. “Juanita, what 
has come to you? What has brought you to me?” 
Seizing her hand with one that trembled, he drew 
her into the room; and, with eyes still downcast, she 
sat upon his own big chair that he wheeled forward.) 

She raised her great brilliant eyes of black to 
his, and swiftly lowered them again. 

“I am in trouble, padre. I have been much in¬ 
sulted.” 

“Insulted?” exclaimed the padre, more confused 
than before. “But for whom have you gone in 
mourning?” 

Again she sought his eyes with a swiftly falling 
look. “For Juanita Mena.” 

“For yourself?” The padre sank upon a chair 
in his amazement. ‘‘You have frightened me, Jua 
nita, and I have no doubt to some serious purpose. 
Have you lost your mind?” 

“No,” said Juanita in a low, sad voice, “I have 
lost my name.” 

“You had it in your last sentence,” exclaimed the 
padre, “so if you are truthful it is here in my house 


224 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


somewhere! It is your wits that you have lost, or 
else you have gained some of a mischievous kind! 
Have you come here on this pretty day to terrify 
me? You have played many naughty tricks among 
my people, but you shall play none upon me! For 
what are you in mourning?” 

“En el nombre de Dios!” cried Juanita desper¬ 
ately, casting up her great eyes in passionate appeal. 
“Pure soul of my Castilian grandmother ! I have 
told you, padre. I have been much insulted!” 

“Come,” cried the padre, “your grandmother was 
a fishwife in Oporto. I hope her soul was pure, but 
she was no Castilian! Are you suddenly in mourn¬ 
ing for your grandmother?” 

“Alas, I am again much insulted!” wailed Jua¬ 
nita. Though she was sitting stiffly on the edge of 
the padre’s great chair, yet it was as if she had 
settled herself down in it to stay, and his frightened 
impatience verged upon serious anger. 

“Come, come, Juanita! I am tired of that word! 
I gain nothing from your talk, and you must explain 
yourself or go home! I have said.” 

“Even here, then, I am much insulted!”' wept 
Juanita, large, bright tears squeezing to her 
whitened cheeks. “But such is my lot now, and I 
must bear it, even from those who loved me for¬ 
merly !” 

The padre’s tone changed to a quick entreaty, 
and he took one of her limp hands in both of his. 
“My dear, I will always love you! If you think 
not, then you have not known me. At once, Juanita, 
tell me all your trouble!” 

Her moment’s silence weighting her brief words, 


SPANISHING HANS 


225 


it was for the first time steadily that she looked 
him in his eyes as she said: 

“For the first time, padre, I did not come on 
the day of Saint Giuliana Falconieri to confession.” 

Very slowly as he gazed back at her, the tears 
filled his eyes too. 

“Juanita! Juanita!” he said in unutterable sad¬ 
ness; and dropping her hands, hid his face in his 
own. 

“Come!” cried Juanita, her voice in its sudden¬ 
ness imitating his. “You think too far, padre! I 
have only told you I was much insulted!” 

“Then,” cried the padre, sitting up and staring 
through his tears in his surprise, “for what this 
theatrical mourning and your pregnant words? 
You cruelly amaze me first, and now amaze me 
more! Shall any one be safe in innocence if it is 
a cardinal sin to be insulted?” 

“I am stained!” exclaimed Juanita. “I am 
stained by such insults! I may never lift my head 
again unless by marriage !” 

“And who,” commanded the padre, “has so 
insulted you?” 

“Hans,” said Juanita. 

The padre sprang up, and his voice was breath¬ 
less. 

“Juanita, I am close to doubting you!” 

“Hans,” she repeated, briefly, and was silent. 

“But I can scarce believe it!” urged the padre. 
“I thought I knew Hans as I know my books; and 
let me tell you, Juanita, that I think so still!” 

“I am stained by such insults,” said Juanita 
stubbornly, “and if he proves the coward he is 
called, I must stay stained, and stained I will not 


226 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


stay. I am too young and pretty. He has got 
to marry me.” 

“Come!” cried Padre Pedro vehemently, “it is 
not for you to say that you are pretty, or to say 
what Hans has got—or any one else—to do! I 
shall find out this matter I assure you, and if Hans 
has compromised you-” 

“There!” cried Juanita, quickly. “There is the 
word that I lost upon my way! It was too long 
to remember in my grief, and I have trusted you 
yourself would use it! I am compromised, and he 
must marry me!” 

“Go home!” cried the padre, pacing up and down. 
“Go home, and on your way send Hans to me!” 
And with fresh tears, Juanita went away. 

When Hans came, pink, yellow, sky-blue and won¬ 
dering, the padre paused also in wonder, a garlic 
in one hand and a lettuce in the other, that he had 
not spanked Juanita on the spot. He could not 
think such eyes had insult in them, any more than 
the cloudless June vault itself; yet Juanita’s had 
so called upon it, themselves full of lightning and 
black thunder, that now in retrospect he could not 
find it in his soul to doubt her either. 

“Hans, my dear boy, sit down!” and he laid by 
the members of his salad and drew forth again the 
great armchair, while Hans placed his thick person 
awkwardly upon the smallest one in the house. 

“Hans,” said Padre Pedro, struggling with his 
problem as painfully as though he had not done 
so for an hour, “Hans, do you think of marrying?” 

The blue orbs into which he gazed seemed to float 
more widely in their pink sea. 



SPANISHING HANS 


227 


“It is why I have run from Germany!” exclaimed 
Hans. “My father and my mama, they would 
marry me to a large German lady, and likewise her 
father and mama. So I have run. Yet I will not get 
married in Terassa.” 

“Do you not think that you ought to marry, 
Hans?” 

“No,” said Hans, calmly but emphatically. “I 
will never marry some Spanish ladies, out of fear 
they will get fat on me.” 

“You are happy and successful in Terassa, Hans, 
and you have told me you intend to stay here. Do 
you not wish to have a family, Hans?” 

“No, Papa,” said Hans promptly, “not with some 
Spanish ladies. I am an Aleman, which they do not 
take kindly; and, when I shall make some mistakes, 
they will get a dagger on me, else get fat or religious 
on me.” 

“You are a good Catholic yourself, Hans,” said 
the padre. 

“Not with daggers, Papa,” answered Hans. 

“Hans,” said Padre Pedro with a sigh, “ever 
since you first came to Terassa, I have always 
thought you a good boy—polite, honourable, and 
good. Am I quite right in so doing, Hans?” 

“Yes, Papa,” replied Hans promptly. “Other¬ 
wise but my confessions, out of a good Catholic.” 

“I wish to believe you, Hans,” said the padre, 
“but are you certain it is so to-day?” 

Hans scratched his head, and, furrowing his 
wide brow, thought earnestly. “Yes, Papa. I was 
good all day to-day.” 

“But lately,” urged the padre. “Yesterday, and 


228 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


the day before? Think, Hans!” And he watched 
him anxiously. 

Again Hans thought. 6i Would it be some slan¬ 
ders, Papa?” he asked suddenly. 

“There are no slanders in Terassa, Hans. There 
is gossip sometimes, but slanders do not live here. 
And I have said, Hans, that you must not call me 
‘Papa’.” 

“It must be some gossips, Pa—padre,” answered 
Hans. 

“That word may fit it partly,” said the padre. 
“Juanita, Hans, has been here to talk to me.” 

A sudden blue gleam flashed in Hans’s eyes. 
“Juanita, Papa, you must not believe her! Juanita, 
she is a harpy and a devil-woman! Juanita placed 
an insult at me once, and you must not believe her!” 

“Hans! Hans!” cried the padre sternly. “Be 
careful of your Spanish! Juanita has played many 
wilful tricks I know, but devil-woman is no word 
for a Terassan! Be thoughtful, Hans!” 

“I have done many thoughts, whether I would 
tell on her,” said Hans, “and out of politeness, even 
now I will not tell of her large insult! Out of my 
seldom such Spanish words, she is a devil-woman, 
Papa!” 

“Hans,” cried the padre, “I begin to see an un¬ 
worthy fire in you! I have told you not to use that 
word, and I have told you not to call me ‘Papa’ ! 
I am not the pope and you shall not call me so!” 

“Then I will not call it with a capital, papa,” 
said Hans, stubbornly. 

“Come, come, Hans!” said the padre strongly. 
“Tell me this truthfully: Have you ever insulted 
Juanita?” 


SPANISHING HANS 


229 


“It is devil’s lies, papa!” cried Hans, desperately. 
“It is scandals out of a Spanish lady on an Aleman! 
And you do not love me some more!” 

“There you are wrong, Hans!” said the padre 
helplessly. “Go home how, and come to me to-mor¬ 
row, at the noon-hour.” 

“And you do not love me some more!” wept Hans. 
And with streaming cheeks he went forlornly into 
the Chasm Road. 

Padre Pedro, through the long evening, dismissed 
the matter; but, as the moon rose, streaming her 
green and silver over the sleeping poppies down the 
hill and through his window onto slumbering Nan¬ 
ette, and as he too rose at the chime of his bed-hour 
from his thin-voiced clock, it came upon him sud¬ 
denly again, for some one hesitated in his doorway. 

“But Hans,” he exclaimed, “I said to come to¬ 
morrow, at the noon-hour!” 

“I cannot get some sleep, papa,” answered Hans. 

“Then,” said the padre quickly, “is your con¬ 
science clear?” 

“Juanita says it is not,” stammered Hans, 
anxiously. “She comes below my window in the 
dark, and sings me songs. A loud one, from La 
Gran Via , and a sad one, from the church. Then 
when I come out and call her some hard names, she 
cries, and says I must get married to her.” 

The padre had sat down again; and Hans, trem¬ 
bling weakly onto the little chair, mopped his brow 
nervously. 

“Hans,” said the padre with determination, “I 
find it difficult to judge this matter. I have not 
had the whole truth from Juanita, and you are 


230 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


strangely slow of speech, and reticent. If you 
would marry Juanita, I think that she would make 
you a good wife. But I shall not marry you against 
your will, unless you have compromised her. Have 
you, Hans?” 

“Juanita says it, papa,” answered Hans. 

“But have you, Hans? Be truthful!” 

“Juanita says it, papa, and she should know it, 
on account of knowing Spanish. I do not know 
such words, and if it is a bad one, no I did not. 
But Juanita says it. She has gone in mourning, 
and is all covered with white flowers, like a dead lady. 
She cries and says I have lost her name off of her, 
and she must leave Terassa if I do not give her 
back my German one. And mine is a good name, 
papa! Every lady in Spain has for its name Jua¬ 
nita Mena, while every one in Germany is not called 
Heine Pabst!”' 

“The name, Hans, is of no moment,” said the 
padre. “What I must know is, have you wronged 
Juanita? Has your tongue been too free—with her, 
or about her? Have you in any way insulted her?” 

“I confess, papa,” said Hans tearfully, “that I 
have told some friends she insulted me. She comes 
last week into the vineyard, and she kisses me here 
on my face!” 

“What?” cried the padre. “Against your will? 
Did you tell her not to, Hans?” 

“How can I tell her, papa, when she holds my 
head?” 

“Oh, shame, Hans, shame!” 

It was Juanita’s voice; and Hans and the padre 
both, in their startlement, sprang up. 


SPANISHING HANS 


231 


Her head and shoulders draped with soft white 
roses that shone pale and wax-like in the moon¬ 
light, she was standing in the road before the win¬ 
dow. “Tell him no more! Pity me, Hans, and tell 
him nothing more! Were not your friends enough? 
You have shamed me to the padre, whom I loved!” 

“Juanita,” thundered the padre angrily, “stay 
where you are, and do not cross my threshold! 
Hans, there is mystery here, nor can I solve it! Go 
to your homes, and do not speak to each other 
as you go! And when one of you, or both, will tell 
the full truth to me, come back, and I will marry you 
or not, according to the wrong done, as I see it!” 

Juanita sobbed, and Hans was softly weeping. 

“You do not love me some more,” he cried heart- 
brokenly, “which shall never be shown my own fault 
on me, after I have been a good boy, committing 
only one such crimes, which I did not comprehend 
beforehand! And you do not love me some more!” 

“I love you very much, Hans,” exclaimed the 
padre, “but go home!” 

“Excuse me, but such is lies!” wept Hans. “You 
have pity out for me, but no more love! Besides 
Juanita, which was troublesome, now I lose your 
polite affection! It is yes, and you know it! I 
could pray I was in Germany, to be put in the army, 
away from ladies!” 

“Go home, Hans! Juanita, go!” 

And, Juanita having dragged off her drooping 
roses and hurled them desperately through the win¬ 
dow at the stern priest’s feet, they both, Hans as 
loudly as Juanita, went weeping separately along 
the Chasm Road. 


232 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


It was now so late that the first house in Terassa, 
first not for its importance, though that might also 
be, but for its position at the foot of the green hill 
across from the poppy-fields, closed its one eye 
abruptly. Rosa Queranza, having blown out her 
candle, was climbing into bed; and that her door 
should be loudly knocked upon and immediately 
thrown open without ceremony, at this hour in the 
dark, startled from her a gasp half-angry, half- 
frightened, as she re-secured her candle. 

As she held it up and the door closed behind her 
visitor, her expression fled from some astonishment 
to more, and thence to indignation. 

“What are you doing,” demanded Rosa, “in my 
house?” 

“I am sitting in it,” said Juanita. 

Rosa looked sharply at her. She permitted 
impertinence in people of quality, and she was also 
clever at arithmetic, and especially addition : huge 
impudence in a low person equalled moderate rude¬ 
ness in a respectable one, like the fascinating value 
of a counterfeit five-peseta piece smiled out of the 
factory at Sevilla ; and she sat herself down on her 
mother’s chest. 

“May God forbid,” she said, “that you were ever 
as bad as I have thought you. Still, you have had 
a most corrupt appearance in dress, and the padre 
alone has persuaded me to speak to you. Then why 
are you in all this hypocritical costume, and why 
have you draggled it into my house?” 

Juanita began to cry. 

“You are prettier,” said Rosa, “when you cry 
than when you laugh. So I will have no foolishness 
out of you, but get the truth. Tell it.” 


SPANISHING HANS 


233 


Juanita lowered her head, and rocked it upon her 
arms. 

“I am in trouble, Rosa.” 

“One minute from now, you may be, unless you 
tell the truth,” her hostess answered. 

Juanita lifted her head and, after they had looked 
at each other a long time, said: 

“Hans.” 

Again they looked in each other’s eyes for a long 
time. 

“Juanita, I am sixty-eight years old,” said Rosa, 
significantly. 

“I will not dispute you,” answered Juanita; and 
then, seeing with her lowered eyes that one of 
Rosa’s hands, with all the changeful quality of an 
expressive face, was hesitating toward the kettle, she 
rose and did one of the cleverest things that have 
ever gone forward in Terassa. She put her arms 
around Rosa into a tight, strong embrace, and kissed 
her lips. 

Quite early the next morning, Rosa garbed herself 
with care, and, setting Juanita to clear away the 
breakfast dishes and placing with her sundry 
instructions regarding her mother’s chest, embraced 
her affectionately and went forth into the June 
splendour. 

The thirty little boys, assembling in the poppy- 
fields for the cool work of the early morning, were 
restlessly inquisitive at the discovery of an over¬ 
night visitor in Ugly Rosa’s house; and even 
Antonito was not above some curiosity, and, noting 
the identity in its sad mourning weeds, made as if 
to ask questions. But Rosa merely shook her head 


234 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


sternly and sorrowfully, and, going silently up the 
highway, came into the village and stopped, in a 
deliberate manner, at the white and very bright blue 
house of the fishmonger, a tradesman who was cour¬ 
teous and simple, though he had on one occasion 
been harshly rebuked by the padre for keeping some 
stale fishes, and comforted himself only because his 
neighbour, Ancient Ines, also had been rebuked, for 
irreligious lace-work. 

“I do not wish any sea-food, fishmonger,” said 
Rosa, haughtily, “but I do wish something else, for 
which I am perfectly willing to pay the price of 
several fishes, and that is, a certain amount of 
gossip on your part. You are of course a very low 
person, being in this fish business, and therefore you 
can appeal to a large number of people whom I 
could not afford to gossip with.” 

The fishmonger was terrified at her words; but he 
was a polite man, and did nothing but bow and 
bow. 

“What you are to say,” said Rosa, “is that our 
beloved Padre Pedro is in trouble about German 
Hans. There is not a soul in Terassa who does 
not love the padre, and everybody will be shocked 
to learn that Hans, a German, has hurt his feelings 
by doing wrong. Tell everybody, and mind you 
keep your mouth tight shut while you tell it. Do 
you understand me, fishmonger?” 

“Yes, Rosa! Yes, lady!” stammered the fish¬ 
monger. 

“ Well then, you know more than I do,” said Rosa. 
“Therefore, I have no doubt I can trust you. But 
remember you must tell only the truth. Otherwise 
I will never pay you the price of the fishes I have 


SPANISHING HANS 


235 


so kindly bought from you. Be sure you bring 
six; and be sure also that you do not add to what 
I have said, for gossip is a dreadful thing, fish¬ 
monger, and you must be exceedingly cautious! 
Can you assure me that you will do exactly what 
I have bidden you?” 

“Yes, lady! Yes, Rosa!” cried the fishmonger. 

“People of low station,” said Rosa with dignity, 
“should call me Senora Queranza!” And although 
he tried in the humblest fashion to detain her, she 
stepped from the blue and white shop and went 
across to the house of Ines, and thence, via that of 
Amarillis, to the oldest quarter of the town, around 
the fonda, to the dwellings of the most ancient ladies 
in Terassa. 

In the course of the morning, she had brought 
together six comrades on the green, and proceeded, 
in conclave, to the heart of the matter. 

“We can do it,” she said, “if we are bold enough. 
You know I love the padre, in return for his well- 
known favouritism toward me; but, if there is any¬ 
thing else as well-known, it is his conviction that 
there is no one of greater wisdom than his, in any 
matter. Now, if we are to put this in the proper 
light, we must first convince him of our good parts, 
especially our learning. Surely, there is not one 
among us, even Amarillis, who cannot think of 
somethmg he does not know.” 

Amarillis did not answer, but Ines spoke out. 

“For my part, Rosa, I will never venture on any 
point of religion.” 

“You would better not!” exclaimed Rosa. “But 
you need not tell me you cannot think of somethmg , 
and, provided it is impressive, it does not matter 


236 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


what. Let me tell you I know of one gentleman 
who simply said that there was nothing like virtue; 
yet he became famous, for he had a gift for uttering 
just such nonsense as if it meant something. Know¬ 
ing this, our course to start with is simple, provided 
you afterwards follow my bent, and stand to my 
opinion. We will have public opinion behind us, for 
that wretched fishmonger, I find, has already gotten 
wind of the matter, which means that the whole 
people will have got it, with the worst interpretation, 
before noon. As for Juanita, I have arranged her 
behaviour, and have supplied her instrument. Al¬ 
though I am a Castilian in descent, one of my 
aunts was crazy, and joined a musician’s troop in the 
streets of Sevilla. I have inherited her cornet, and 
have lent it.” 

Among her listeners was the oldest female resident 
of Terassa, Jacinta, the widow of Ramero’s grand¬ 
son; and, at Rosa’s statement, her feeble voice was 
heard. 

“But what,” it quavered, ‘‘will she do with the 
corneta?” 

“Noise abroad her grief, Jacinta, and indicate 
her tottering wits on it,” said Rosa. “And as for 
you, though I have so long neglected your acquaint¬ 
ance, I have always admired you, Jacinta, and count 
largely upon you in this, for the padre will respect 
an opinion from such extraordinary years. 

“Now, my one fear is you, Amarillis, and if you 
are to be with us at all, you must first assure me 
that you will have something to contribute, and 
that it will not be the wrong thing, and that you 
will say it when your turn comes. I will not ask 
you to speak now, so that you may reserve your 


SPANISHING HANS 


237 


efforts, but you can nod your head. Can you 
assure me?” 

Amarillis nodded. 

“Are you sure of yourself, Amarillis? Something 
of grave importance, and startling?” 

Amarillis nodded again. 

“Good,” said Rosa. “Now we will go to Ines’s 
house for refreshments.” 

Meanwhile the highway wall, at a point near 
where the Chasm Road led off to the padre’s house, 
was the seat of a strange spectacle. 

Indeed, the spot and the wall had been so in the 
past; for here had Juanita’s sick goat gone to death, 
and a shocking grave down in the Chasm, when 
Ines had bought it to fetch her from the devil’s 
clutch, and her cart had broken down with all her 
furniture. But that sight, so memorable to all 
who witnessed it, was neither so alarming nor so 
tragic as that which now met the vineyarders as they 
came up to the village for the noon-hour. 

On the wall sat Juanita in her long deep mourn¬ 
ing, gazing with set eyes out across the valley, and 
her lips moving, as if in prayer or pleading, yet no 
words coming from them. On her rich flowing hair 
was a wreath of bride’s white roses, and a few, up¬ 
side-down, clung here and there by their great 
thorns in her dusty dress, while in her lap she held 
a large cornet. 

At the first bewildered man who questioned her, 
she did not look, nor would she speak to him; and 
when, in his astonishment, he pressed her, she made 
no answer in words, but, after a few moments, sud¬ 
denly lifting her instrument, blew from it such a 


238 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


wailing horror of unhappy sound that he stumbled 
backward in terror, and then ran down the highway 
to his coming fellows and, gesticulating, drew them 
hastily forward. Nor was it long before a great 
gathering stood anxiously near her, frightened and 
gesturing. 

“What is the matter, Juanita? . . . How is your 
health? . . . Have you gone sick? ... Is it a 
trick of yours, or are you crazy? . . . Juanita, 
Juanita, pause! You will blow yourself off the wall! 
. . . Juanita!” 

But the only word she uttered was “Hans!” be¬ 
tween the long cries of the wailing-voiced corneta; 
and their cruel question of joke was replied to by 
her pitiable white cheeks, and the tears that streamed 
down them to the instrument. 

Then, as Antonito ran up from the poppy-fields, 
alarmed by the crowd and followed by all thirty of 
the little boys, she burst, with doleful, long, long 
notes into a melody favourite among them—a melody 
from a foreign land yet called by her own pretty 
Spanish name, “Juanita”; and this left no doubt 
indeed that she was mad, for she was noted in 
Terassa as a fine musician, and Juanita played it 
now in frightful discords, half on, half off the key. 

The padre was taking his hard-earned siesta when 
the little boys ran in. After the habit of dreams, 
his were not of his latest problem, but oddly con¬ 
cerned the handsome American lady who had so 
taken his heart the year before, and her motor-car, 
which had been so strange and interesting in old- 
time Terassa. The dream was vivid, and he seemed 
to hear in his sleep, again and again, the weird cry 


SPANISHING HANS 


239 


of the car; and now, the noise and jumping of the 
little boys about it as she would sit smiling in it 
by the green and show them how to work its dreadful 
horn. 

And he found them jumping and clamouring in 
truth as he sat up, rubbing his eyes and instinctively 
commanding quiet. 

“Juanita? What about her? On the wall, Ber¬ 
nardo? Like the carriage without mules, Jose? . . . 
Be quiet! Run away—leave the house! I will see 
for myself what you mean!” And, pushing them 
forth before him, he drove his way sleepily to his 
doorstep. 

But though they melted rapidly off and back 
through the Chasm Road to the highway, he got no 
farther than his actual threshold; for in front of 
him was arrayed a company of old ladies, whose 
total years, had they been stretched out in line as 
these were now, would have reached back into history 
some five centuries; and, as he stood marvelling, 
there was added to their pageant the clarion wail 
of the distant corneta. 

“In very truth, I have been caught napping!” he 
stammered. “What is the matter with the world 
to-day?” 

“Something of great importance,” answered Rosa. 
“Now, these people and myself, some of us ladies 
but all of us respectable, have come on a most 
serious errand. For myself, I know from bitterest 
experience that you are resentful between two and 
three o’clock; but, as we have told you that our 
errand is important and terrible, you will of course 
be hospitable—out of common sense if nothing more, 
because we have got to make you a long visit.” 


240 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


The padre, though quite startled, had been care¬ 
fully studying the assembly; and he made a response 
to Rosa’s bold tone by saying: 

“My hospitality has never before been questioned, 
Rosa. But is it kind to come upon me so suddenly 
to the number of seven ladies?” 

“Now,” exclaimed Rosa, “you have for years 
accused me of exaggeration, and now you exag¬ 
gerate, yourself, for any one could see that we are 
only six and a half! Even a charitable priest must 
admit that Amarillis is but half a woman!” 

“Rosa, you are impertinent!” cried the padre, 
indignantly. 

“Now,” cried Rosa, “who would have supposed 
that you would cruelly bar your door against seven 
ladies who love you dearly? May not even gray 
hairs and feeble voices interrupt your nap ?” 

“Do not shout!” thundered the padre. “Come 
in at once, and cease this foolish arguing at my 
door!” And he strode into his room, the six and 
a half ladies following in a line behind him. 

He went to his special great chair; but when, in 
sitting, he discovered to his astonishment that Ja- 
cinta was of the odd number, he rose again and 
helped her into it, then taking himself a smaller 
one. Rosa had disposed herself upon another, 
motioning Ines to the last; while Isabelita, Brigi- 
dita, and Ambrosia retired in a row upon the couch, 
and Amarillis, very much frightened at her own 
obedience, followed Rosa’s pointing finger and 
climbed upon the sideboard in the corner. 

“Now,” said the padre, “will you explain this 
visit, Rosa?” 

“Not quite yet, padre,” answered Rosa promptly, 


SPANISHING HANS 


241 


“for we have come to persuade you of something 
that should be done; and lest you should think our 
opinions of no value, we will first show you that we 
are women of learning. In some matters, padre, 
women are wiser than men; but that you may not 
doubt it, we are agreed that we must satisfy you 
first, with facts that you have probably never 
known. As to the value of my own opinion, you 
have never questioned it; and as for to-day, I have 
shown enough sense and fairness in this very pro¬ 
vision. . . . Ines, begin.” 

“I am at a total loss,” exclaimed the padre, “but 
if Ines has any remarkable knowledge, by all means 
let her show it!” 

Ines, her wrinkles somewhat drawn and pale, was 
bowing to him repeatedly, distracted between her 
task and the painful clutch of Rosa’s hand below her 
gown. 

“A gentleman,” she began, “—a gentleman named 
Cristobal Colon, famous from his statue in Barce¬ 
lona, discovered the great continent of Buenos 
Aires.” 

“I did not know it,” said the padre. “You impress 
me very much, Ines. Go on.” 

“And he died in jail there, although to save his 
life the queen of the country sold her manton de 
Manila!” 

“I am learning every moment,” said the padre. 
“Is that all, Ines? Who is next?” 

“Jacinta,” said Rosa. “Her years should have 
put her first, but Ines was nervous. Speak up, 
Jacinta!” 

“With the padre’s pardon,” said Jacinta, her 
thin voice quavering slowly through the room, “I 


242 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


will tell something almost no one knows. In Cal- 
detas, on the Mediterranean Sea, there is a cistern 
where a thousand girls were drowned. A Moorish 
pirate, suffering with ague, came there and captured 
them many years ago. They said they would cure 
him if he set them free. But when he was well, he 
broke his word and killed them. Now their ghosts 
come there every night at six, and weep into the cis¬ 
tern, which still cures ague. I have said.” 

“Thank you, Jacinta,” said the padre. “Who is 
next ?” 

“Any one on the sofa,” answered Rosa. 

There was a dreadful silence from the three, and 
then the middle lady, Brigidita, spoke. 

“I and Isabelita, padre, know so little that we 
are bold enough to think you do not know that I 
have agreed to speak for both. Our names in the 
English tongue are Bessie and Biddie.” 

“And mine,” said Ambrosia, hastening with her 
courage, “is Angelcake. I had this news from the 
American lady who gave you your little dog. And 
if you can remember it, padre, and will make me 
the favour, I would like to be called that hereafter, 
it is so much prettier.” 

“The American lady , 5 said the padre, “did not 
mean that you should use it. Ladies are not named 
so in America. They are not cannibals there. Now, 
Rosa- 55 

“You have not heard Amarillis yet,” said Rosa; 
and the padre’s eyebrows, as he turned and dis¬ 
covered her location, went up so much that she 
almost came down. 

“Well, Amarillis?” he demanded. 

She was trembling; but under Rosa’s gaze her 



SPANISHING HANS 


243 


features worked with convulsive effort, and at last 
forced out the beginning of a sound. 

“V . . . .” she started. 

“If you are going to utter nonsense,” cried the 
padre, “spare yourself the pain! I will take your 
good intention for your words!” 

But she was struggling to redeem herself, and 
again said, “V ..... ” 

“Take care!” cried the padre. “You will fall!” 
But his motion toward her terrified from her the 
alternative of speech, and her contribution of three 
words rang forth: 

“Votes for women!” 

The padre jumped to his feet. 

“Rosa, what have you come here for? You were 
correct enough in saying that I lean upon your 
judgment; but you have some purpose in this rig¬ 
marole, and you are the only one who has not told 
me something! You have made these women and 
myself ridiculous; and with no more nonsense, if 
you have something to impart to me, impart it!” 

“I . . . would vote for the padre!” uttered Ama- 
rillis, terrified, and collapsed from the sideboard. 

“Come, come!” cried Rosa sharply to the padre. 
“These ladies are all of one opinion in the matter, 
and have come here to bear me out. If you have 
not been edified by their knowledge, it is not my 
fault! Women know best in love matters, and we 
are agreed that Hans should have to marry poor 
Juanita!” 

With a suddenness equalling that of Amarillis, 
the padre fell back into his chair. 

“And that is what you have come here to inform 


244 TERASSA OF SPAIN 

me? And why do you agree that he should marry 
her?” 

“You know the saying,” said Rosa, “ ‘Where 
there is some smoke!’ Well, the whole town is 
against him. Every one says that he should marry 
her; and, while I am too kind to probe the contention 
between them, he ought for one thing because her 
wits are in danger. She is sitting on the wall with 
a cornet, weeping and making mournful music on it. 
Have you not seen and heard her? Every one else 
has, and we fear for your German’s life!” 

Once more the padre rose, and, in the small space 
left by the visiting ladies, paced up and down in 
his anxiety. 

“Alas, I am troubled, troubled! Despite the 
nonsense you have fed me with, I see that you are 
in earnest; and I cannot tell what you know or do 
not know about this pair, for I have noted that 
among themselves my people can be very secretive! 
Though I tell you, Rosa, that I will not marry 
them without a reason, either their double desire or 
a worse one, still you have troubled me with this 
tale of anger abroad!” 

“Let me tell you, padre, you have friends!” cried 
Rosa affectionately. “Though I dislike Hans, while 
Ines here loves him, and Amarillis has a foolish eye 
to him while Jacinta’s whole family loathes him, we 
are all agreed to stand with you to protect him, 
The people will be pacified if he marries her, and 
by now, no doubt, he is sorry for havipg driven her 
from her wits. Shall I call him in?” 

“He is here?" gasped the padre. 

“I sent him word,” said Rosa, “that we would all 
stand with you to protect him. Hans, come in!” 


SPANISHING HANS 


245 


And to the lonely wail of the corneta in the distance, 
Plans, mystified and trembling, stepped through the 
door from the pantry, as the padre dropped limply 
again upon his chair. 

“It is not my doings, papa!” he exclaimed. “Poor 
Juanita, she is crazy, playing La Gran Via on a 
large blow-pipe, and the whole vineyard blames me! 
I have done no crimes, papa, if I know it; and if I 
have looked sideways sometimes at Juanita, it is 
no crime in Alemania! But not for an escape, would 
I drive a nice thin lady from her wits!” 

“Hans,” cried the padre, “I cannot understand 
you and Juanita! And I must tell you, though I 
myself accused her of it yesterday, I do not believe 
that she has lost her wits!” 

“Can you say so, padre?” cried Rosa reproach¬ 
fully ; and the corneta , louder and sadder and 
sadder, was fetching its discord toward them along 
the road. 

“Juanita,” cried the padre angrily as she entered, 
“put by that hideous instrument! Put it down!” 
And Juanita, bursting into tears and blowing at 
Hans a last pathetic wail that filled the little room, 
sank sobbing upon the floor. 

“Get up!” said the padre sternly. “There is no 
chair for you, so you may stand. And stop your 
weeping! Between you, I am witless in the matter! 
Hans, speak out! If you desire to marry Juanita, 
say so. But as for fearing violence, do not think 
it. My trust in you shall satisfy Terassa, and 
you have no good opinion to regain if you can leave 
her with a happy conscience !” 

“I do not hate her!” wept Hans desperately. 
“And she is thin enough, if a Spanish lady would 


246 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


stay so! * But Heine Pabst is a good name in Ger¬ 
many, and Juanita Mena is uneducated, while I 
can read and write. Though I shall not go home 
to Alemania, I would not shame my father and my 
mama!” 

“I can write, Hans!” exclaimed Juanita; and, 
seizing pencil and paper at the padre’s table, she 
wrote in wavering but enormous letters, with two 
great flourishing tildes over the handsome n’s— 

Senora Dona, Jans Paps 

Hans took the paper and gazed long upon it; 
and, as it passed among the admiring ladies, 
addressed once more the sadly troubled padre. 

“I have made a mistake about her learning, papa. 
But would she get her wits back, and stay pretty ?” 

“The question, Hans,” said the padre with a 
sigh, “is whether you are content to marry her.” 

“She is not,” said Hans, “as bad as some other 
Spanish ladies.” 

“Then,” cried the padre, rising with quick reso¬ 
lution, “go home, the whole of you! And if you are 
in this mind to-morrow, Hans, I will marry you 
when both of you are ready.” 

There was a general stir among the ladies, but 
Rosa was beforehand with a question. 

“Why not now, padre? Remember, the town is 
in a state against him!” 

“Now?” cried the padre. “In that garb of Jua¬ 
nita’s? She is more superstitious than the pack 
of you!” 

“I have thought of that,” said Rosa; and bringing 
a small package from her dress, she laid out its 


SPANISHING HANS 


247 


compact treasure, fold on fold, till the main floor- 
space was covered with white lace, the ancient ladies 
gaping, Jacinta quavering saints’ names in delight. 

“I did not have a Castilian great-great-grand¬ 
mother for nothing,” said Rosa calmly. 

Even the padre’s eyes grew large at its vast 
creamy fineness, but he protested: “We have no 
ring, Juanita!” 

“ Dispense , padre mio ” said Juanita, blushing, 
“but I happen to have a wedding ring about me. 
It is my mother’s,” and she handed it to Rosa, who 
drew, in the yellow afternoon light that was creep¬ 
ing across the floor, the whole priceless mantilla 
through it, Jacinta rapturously rehearsing again 
her list of saints. 

“And I have lent my cart and mule,” mentioned 
Ines, “for a journey, if they will take one.” 

“But,” exclaimed the padre, “shall you be mar¬ 
ried at once, Juanita, in an empty church, without 
music and without guests?” 

“The church is full already,” answered Rosa. 

With a stifled ejaculation, the padre stepped to 
his door, scarce credulous when he beheld the crowd 
of citizens overflowing the church, down the smooth 
green terraces into the road. 

“But . . .” 

“We cautioned them,” said Rosa, “that you would 
not wish to be disturbed until you had settled the 
details, and they thoughtfully came about by way 
of the chasm.” 

For a moment the padre stood still in the door¬ 
way, gazing from Rosa to Juanita, and back again. 

“Come then,” he said at last, abruptly, and strode 


248 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


into his little kitchen, followed with becoming humil¬ 
ity by Juanita. 

Once more, confessing her must have been a trial, 
for when he reopened the door for her to pass out 
and the nervous Hans to pass in, he seemed a little 
dazed. And when, in turn, Hans reappeared among 
the ladies, the priestly countenance was completely 
bewildered. 

Discovered to the multitude, the three and their 
numerous company were accompanied on the short 
journey to the church by unlimited cheering, and 
the wedding, withal so unprepared and hasty, 
was a loud and charming one, for its history lent 
it a sensation that brought it second only to the 
joyous one of the yellow-haired Antonito and his Vio- 
leta. They were there, with quickly gathered offer¬ 
ings of wine and early poppies; and Antonito having 
hurried them together, the little boys, without their 
vestments to be sure but pitched in their excite¬ 
ment to high vocal sweetness, sang with unwonted 
effect in the church; and before and afterward, as on 
that former great occasion, all they could remember, 
out of compliment to Juanita, of the dances and 
cadencing rhythms of La Gran Via. And all those 
kindly citizens who had been inclined toward Hans 
had brought June flowers in profusion, so that their 
vineyard clothes were covered up; and out of com¬ 
pliment to him, and their silent mutual affection, 
Amarillis, in lack of a maiden closely concerned in 
the matter, attended the white radiant Juanita as 
honour matron, standing behind her in wide-eyed 
quietude, her small arms crowded with magenta-hued 
japonicas, her whole person a figure of thrilled awe 
at her situation; while the mellow, soft evening sun 


SPANISHING HANS 


249 


fell in one great line across her and the foremost dis¬ 
tinguished row of a thousand wrinkles. 

When all was finished, and the lessening populace 
on its road to supper, the new pair kissed the padre, 
leaning out from Ines’s cart, in which upon Juanita’s 
choice they were starting on the two days’ pilgrim¬ 
age to Montserrat, the sacred mountain of the 
Holy Grail. 

“I am glad, Juanita,” said the padre gravely, 
“that you have chosen your journey so religiously. 
It is fitting after this unseemly matter, even now 
that whatever wrong has been is righted.” 

Juanita put her arm around his neck. “Dispense, 
padre mio” she whispered, “but I will explain to you 
the whole truth now! What he did was . . . noth¬ 
ing!” 

“Oh, Juanita!” he reproached her sternly. “Even 
in confession, with your very silence you let me think 
he had done you some wrong!” 

“Padre mio ” she asked, her black eyes wide with 
solemnity, “was it not a crime not to make love to 
me?” 

“But Juanita, Juanita-” he began. 

“Excuse me, papa,” interrupted Hans. “Excuse 
me, papa, but it is my wife!” 

“Hans, Hans!” began the padre; but the cart 
jolted away, and he turned his sad indignation upon 
Rosa: “Did you know this ?” 

“Of course I knew it!” said Rosa. “Juanita con¬ 
fided everything to me, out of respect for my wis¬ 
dom, which you always so unkindly undervalue! As 
you yourself have so often harshly told me, I was 
very wrong in thinking her too light. Was I not 
clever in turning round that stubborn German?” 



250 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


The padre’s face had grown a little white; and, 
instead of answering her, he sank down on the ter¬ 
race. When he did speak to her, he did not look at 
her, and “Rosa, Rosa!” was all he said. 

“Come, come!” she began sharply; and then see¬ 
ing that his face was hidden in his hands, she sud¬ 
denly seized them down, her own quivering with 
fright. 

“Padre!” she cried. “Padre! Do you take it so? 
Are you angry at me? Padre! Oh! Will you break 
the heart of an old woman who has loved you since 
before she can remember? Padre! I have been saucy 
to you many times, but I have never done a wicked¬ 
ness to you in my life! And of all things, never 
would I, padre, in a love matter! Padre, listen to 
me: old women in such things know more than any 
men—priests even. They love each other, padre, 
and I knew it before they did! I knew it months ago, 
the first time that I saw them look at each other, 
passing between my house and the poppy fields, on 
the highway!” 

At this the padre looked at her, and his sorrow¬ 
ful eyes were searching. 

“Is this true, Rosa?” he asked in a low voice. 

“When you have looked in my eyes, padre,” she 
answered, “have I ever lied to you?” And side by 
side on the terrace, with their four hands clasped, 
they watched Ines’s cart as it jogged along that 
same highway past the poppy fields into the soft- 
coloured valley, in the mauve and pink direction of 
the Holy Mountain, 


yin 


THE HORNS OF EL DILEMMA 

T O the elderly, sad country priest the great riot- 
tinted city, in its bath of God’s yellow, was 
fever-suggesting, confusing. Though he had come 
into the world here or hereabouts, a half mile away, 
the spot he stood on had seethed thick with blue 
violets then, not the hard earth that ached against 
his shoes; and he gazed strangely upon the stucco 
theatre across from him, and struggled wistfully 
with the scream of its tall poster: 

SENORITA MLLE. NAPIERKOWSKA 
of the Imperial Ballet of Warsaw, and Gran Opera of 
Paris. 

Exciting success in AMERICA, Boston, and the Great 
City of California, 

in the AMERICAN exciting success, 

El Bunny-Hug 

to the AMERICAN Grizzle-Bar successful melody, 

“Allessandro’s RAG-TIME Banns ” 

Y 

Sehor Max Linder, excitingly successful French Actor, 
in the 

exciting AMERICAN success, 

El Cowboy y la White Light Artista. 

Sighing, the priest turned to posters nearer home 
that welled forth beside him from the bark of the 
beautiful planeta trees. 


251 


252 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


“Chico!” screamed the tall black letters every¬ 
where. “Chico! Little Chico! Chiquito! At the 
New Place of Bulls !” 

He had expended two days in the yellow town— 
town he still called it, though it rivalled Madrid now 
—and, beyond their own personal sadness, his spirits 
were shadowed at the thought of all the blood that 
would stream out for Spanish joy this afternoon. 
Red upon the yellow—ah, what a flag was the flag 
of his warm nation! 

Though he gazed up, as if studying, at the rich 
elaboration of the dwelling shelves before him in the 
gracious Paseo, from the swirling naked statues over 
the tall grilled doorways to the twisting balconies, 
and on to the expanses of blue and heliotrope and 
lavender mosaic set in pictures of seething flowers 
and capped by a riot of snow-white tiles, there was 
no interest in his face; and his joyless eyes did not 
change until, falling toward the ground, they noted 
that the mottling shadows thrown at his feet by the 
planeta trees were blotted to a form of solid black, 
and, turning, he saw a figure seated beside him on the 
metal bench. The man was clothed in general like 
another, with his suit of pepper and salt and green 
and shirt of blue; but he was without cravat, and his 
simple face, unlike a peasant’s, hardened after dif¬ 
ferent lines, was topped with a round, tail-brimmed 
hat of shining stiff* black satin. 

He was indeed a fighter of bulls, and Padre Pedro 
gazed at him with deep interest. 

“Ah, friend, buenas tardes!” he said. “You must 
have thought me an unwelcoming priest,” and he 
moved courteously from the centre of the bench. “I 


THE HORNS OE EL DILEMMA 253 


am from the country, and this handsome city some¬ 
what awes me. I was in a brown study.” 

His fellow smiled good-humouredly. “ Salwd . The 
country would awe me, I fear—except from trains, 
I see little of it beyond Tibidabo there, and that has 
handsome villas on it now.” 

“So?” said Padre Pedro. “How rich must Barce¬ 
lona be! Much that I have seen is beautiful, I con¬ 
fess, yet it does not look like Spain to me 1” 

“Can it be so? 5 returned the bullfighter. “I think 
it magnificent!” 

“Quite so, quite so,” said the padre, “and I may 
be in an unworthy humour. I have spent, friend, 
two whole days here on a sad visit, and to an effect 
which, though God’s will be done, I must call un¬ 
happy.” 

“And what, father, was your unhappy errand?” 
asked the espada sympathetically. 

“I hate to tell you,” answered Padre Pedro, “for 
what I found must hurt you. Yet I cannot resist to 
confide in a man of the world, a pleasure rare to me. 
Amigo, I have for long years lived among my beloved 
people in the little village of Terassa, up in the foot¬ 
hills, farther than Ruby, and farther than even 
Ruby, I thank God, from any railroad; yet I have 
not forgotten that I was born here in Barcelona, and 
occasionally there comes over me a longing to see my 
old home, near to the old cathedral. Well, well, times 
are strange and modern, and lately a traveller told 
me sad tales of that neighbourhood. I would not be¬ 
lieve him, and came here to enjoy the sight of my 
childhood’s residence, where I first made my profes¬ 
sion from my faith, and thinking to do some small 
kindnesses, if possible, to the poor tenants there. 


254 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


Alas, alas! It was worse than the traveller had told 
me! Truly, truly it is beyond a doubt. It puts me 
on the horns of a dilemma—if you know the saying? 
—for to run home to my simple people is to desert 
these sinful ones, and to stay here numbs my power 
and my heart, for they will not take the help that I 
would give—indeed, I would not say so if I had not 
found it out!” 

“Come, come!” cried the espada, touching his arm 
in friendly fashion. “I know your saying, ‘Horns 
of a dilemma,’ for it touches my profession; but 
should you take it to yourself in this ? Be lenient! 
Has it hurt anybody? Come, we might not be in this 
world at all!” 

Padre Pedro stared at him. “You take it so?” 

“It is a pity, father,” returned the man, “that you 
need see great changes in your house: but surely 
there must be such a neighbourhood somewhere! And 
while you are priest, father, I am a bullfighter.” 

“You are a man as well, I hope,” remarked the 
priest. 

The bullfighter shrugged his shoulders. “That is 
what I contend, padre. As for that, an espada does 
not have to seek foul neighbourhoods. Take Fua- 
mente. He brags that he has a son who is a gentle¬ 
man. And as the richest espada in Spain, he may 
well brag as he chooses. I had few black eyes thrown 
at me when I was in the arena with him. But 
Fuamente the old, or some one else the young, would 
you have an upholder of Spain’s national sport a 
puritan?” 

“I do not,” said the padre in strong tones, “call 
the bullfight a sport! An art, if you choose, but not 


THE HORNS OF EL DILEMMA 255 


a sport, my friend, for against that art the bull has 
little opportunity!” 

“Well, well, father,” said the espada, “I am no one 
to dispute a priest! Our national art then; and as 
for Fuamente, I know a sin when I see it. But for 
what, padre, is confession? A lady may not marry 
a matador; but shall the great matador, with all 
his well-earned riches and his proud tastes, quell his 
proud thirst and seek to quench it in the sloven 
peasantry ?” 

“What?” cried the padre, gazing at him with crim¬ 
soned face. “Do I hear this from young, handsome 
lips ?” 

“Though they smile with thanks at the name you 
give them, you shall hear no more from them now,” 
said his companion, rising, “or I shall be late for 
the paseo” and with a bow and a kindly laugh he 
walked away. 

“My Father! My Father!” breathed the padre, 
staring after the lovely sinuousness of his swinging 
body. Then he lowered his head into his hands; and 
when he lifted it again it was almost with fear that 
he saw another shadow blotting the leaf shadows on 
the yellow dirt. 

From behind the opposite planeta tree, under the 
big poster of black and white and red that eyed him 
with its cry of “ Chiquito! Little Chico! This day! 
At the New Place of Bulls!” had come a little boy, 
yellow of face and legs, and standing in front of him 
in small clothes as green as the snakelike bark from 
which he seemed to have peeled. 

“Will you make the favour to tell me,” he began, 
and stopped; and as the padre sought for an encour¬ 
aging word, again: ‘Will you make the favour to tell 


256 TERASSA OF SPAIN 

me—which way he went? I was behind the tree, 
and-” 

“Who?” said the astonished padre. 

“Chiquito.” 

“Is that his name—Chiquito? The great Chico?” 
The gentle priest’s astonishment grew. “Come here, 
my dear! Do not act as if you were afraid of me! 
Explain to me what you mean and what you wish to 
know.” 

“I was behind the tree, but I did not see which 
way he went. I must speak to him in the street, but 
not when he is talking to some one.” 

“Why must you speak to him in the street?” 

“I spoke to him in his house and he sent me away. 
In the street he has to be kind. I followed him.” 

“Muchachito said the padre, drawing the stiff, 
shrinking figure against his knees, “you are very 
much frightened about something. What is it, my 
little yellow one? What do you need of the bull¬ 
fighter Chiquito?” 

“I need him to come. In his house he sent me 
away. In the street I could have said it loud, and 
he might have come.” 

“Come where—to your house?” 

“Yes.” 

“For what, my dear?” 

“She is sick, my mother, and angry. She will not 
speak until he comes. I am afraid to go without 
him.” 

“I will go with you, dear,” said the padre. 

“That is not good. She wants Aim.” 

“Well, well,” said the padre, “until you have 
stopped trembling we will talk of other matters. 
What is your name, my dear?” 



THE HORNS OF EL DILEMMA 257 


“Edmundo.” 

“And your mother is sick, and you are in search 
of some one to assist her. You are a good son, 
Edmundo. But you are a rough little boy sometimes, 
or you would not have this !” And the padre patted 
a blue mark upon the small yellow wrist. 

“She did it,” said Edmundo. “But,” he added 
quickly, “because she was sick. Not when she is 
well.” 

“What for?” asked the padre, lowering his voice 
to keep a sudden throb out of it. 

“I woke up in the dark and wanted a piece of 
bread, and I made a noise getting it.” 

“Should you not have a piece of bread if you were 
hungry?” 

“Yes. But she was afraid that I would wake Chi- 
quito.” 

The great hands that held him tightened so that 
Edmundo quivered and tried to dart away. 

“Forgive me,” said the padre. “I did not mean to 
frighten you again. Edmundo, will you take me to 
your mother? I do not know by which street Chico 
went, and perhaps before you could find him, she 
might need some milk or some wine. We will buy 
some. And if you will kiss me, we will buy some¬ 
thing you may see and like—for you—a present.” 

After a long, searching gaze at him, Edmundo 
took his hand, and led him east into the narrow 
aisles of the old city toward the neighbourhood of 
the old cathedral. 

The padre had been bom under the shadow of it, 
as the custom of speech would say; and he tried now 
to gladden his heart by memory of its fabulous rose 
windows. At a joining of small streets an angular 


258 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


corner nosed forth a tall building of gray-green 
stones. A great cardinal had lived here. 

“There is milk!” cried Edmundo eagerly. “For 
my present I will buy a can of it!” They came to a 
halt behind a flock of undulating goats; and the 
padre heard their blue-smocked master and some per¬ 
son far overhead wrangling. From a high window a 
dark-haired girl in a red waist was leaning forth, 
disputing the price of milk as she lowered a tin can, 
chinking with her regretted coins. 

“Alas!” reflected the padre, “what would the cardi¬ 
nal think of such quarrelling!” And to his sad 
thought and the sizz of the milk was added the din of 
a goat that was lost, twenty feet across the cobble¬ 
stones, and stood sending out its needless terror in 
loud bleats of silly despair. The can filled, another 
goat, whose duty was obvious, came forward and 
supplied Edmundo. 

Then the child turned his gray eyes up to the 
padre’s: “It is the last floor, and the stairs are 
dark. Will you make the favour to stay behind a lit¬ 
tle? Then I cannot spill it on your gown.” 

Up and up the padre followed him until a little 
light sifted into the thick darkness, and Edmundo 
pushed open a door. The padre passed by him and 
softly crossed the floor toward the dirty bed, and 
stood looking down upon a beautiful face. Black, 
mussed, damp hair fell in lovely disorder over the 
soiled white of the bed, whence glowed like a red rose 
the deep crimson of her unfastened waist. “She 
sleeps thickly,” said the padre, “for she has just 
bought milk and drunk the whole of it. I am glad 
we have brought so much more, and the wine— 
Daughter,” and he turned to her with low voice, “I 


THE HORNS OF EL DILEMMA 259 


am not Little Chico, but I am a country priest who 
has come to you. Edmundo told me you were sick.” 

Presently he said again: “Daughter—”' and laid 
his fingers on the pale brow. “Speak to us, daugh¬ 
ter—” He stood a long time, his fingers beginning 
to tremble a little at the fevered warmth and damp 
cold of her forehead. He turned back to Edmundo. 

“My son,” he said, “you need not stay with her 
now. Perhaps she is talking to some one in her 
sleep. But she must talk to me. Go out again, and 
wait for me in the street. I will come to you there 
presently.” 

Edmundo looked at him suspiciously, but kind 
eyes reassured him, and he tiptoed from the room, 
closing the door behind him quietly. 

When the padre faced again the tousled bed the 
woman had awakened and was sitting up, staring 
wide-eyed and terrified at his tall black figure. 

“Daughter,” he said quickly in his gentlest voice, 
“I fear that I have frightened you.” 

“Dios santo , but you have!” she gasped. “Who 
are you? What are you doing in my room?” 

“I have come to comfort you,” answered Padre 
Pedro. “You are sick and I have brought you milk 
and wine.” The half-dead fire of her eyes leaped up. 

“Milk and wine are no comfort, nor are you!” 

“You do not know, my daughter. Will you drink? 
Will you talk to me?” 

“I will not talk to you. Who told you I was sick? 
My stupid child?” 

“Your loving son, my girl!” said the padre 
sternly; and at the harsh, sudden authority of his 
tone she gasped and fell back against the pillows. He 


260 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


stepped in silence to her chipped tin washstand, in 
silence cleansed a broken china cup, and in silence 
poured into it both milk and wine; and when he spoke 
again his voice, though still stern, was less hard, less 
reproachful. 

“Thus do we do for weary folk in little Terassa, 
whence I come, my girl. I am a country priest who 
chanced upon a little of your story. You need not 
fear me, but if one human wickedness can stir my 
tone to hardness more than another, it is a mother’s 
hardness to her child. It is un-Spanish, for one 
thing. Why are you so?” The embers of her eyes 
were dull again. 

“A mother’s life is not a soft one, padre. Not in 
each case. If your saints had not cheated me—for 1 
confess to your religion, though I was not reared to 
much of it!—to be a loving mother might be easy. 
You know naught of me and have no right to judge 
me.” 

“I do not judge you,” said the padre briefly. “As 
to knowing naught of you, I know this much: that 
Chico is the father of your child, and that you are 
sick because he does not love you.” 

She seized his arm in fear that surpassed wild 
anger. Her eyes blazed again. “You lie! Are you 
a devil? Or a gypsy? Oh, I am gypsy enough my¬ 
self not to fear priests with my tongue! The child 
could not tell you—he knows nothing!” 

“He knows,” said the padre calmly, “that you 
pinch his little body for him if he wakes your little 
Chico.” 

Again she fell back, with wild laughing and weep¬ 
ing, her hands over her face; and after a moment, 


THE HORNS OF EL DILEMMA 261 


with abrupt impulse, the priest thrust his arm behind 
her shoulders and drew her fevered head against him, 
caressing the damp, tangled hair. 

“Come, come, my dear! Do you think I came here 
harshly? I came to learn your story and to help 
you. What little of it I know was God’s answer to 
me because my heart was sore and rancorous this 
morning. I am strange here in my own birthplace; 
yet even in this great confusing city He leads my 
country feet toward work to do! He is good to me 
when I am ungrateful! Will you not tell me your 
trouble now?” 

Drawing suddenly away from him, she lay for a 
short time with face buried; then she rolled over in 
the tortured bedclothes and spoke slowly, the dull 
fire glowing but faintly in her sick black eyes. 

“It runs in the blood, this bad business, I think. 
You have it in your own doctrine—‘unto such and 
such a generation.’ You say I am bad to the child. 
Well, I have done more for him than some mothers 
would. I bore him on purpose, and was brave for 
him then. And, saints and Chico forgive me, I have 
been bad since to keep him alive! What say you to 
that? As to my mother, she was married—yet— 
She was a gypsy, my mother. So I am half Gitana, 
half Americana.” 

“Americana?” exclaimed the padre, incredulously. 

“I do not show it?” she laughed. “Our Spanish 
blood is strong—did you not know that, priest? My 
father’s love was gypsy love, I tell you! Whoever 
he was, he made a Spanish matter of it! Well, so it 
goes. But I am luckless, for I was an unwelcome 
child—and my own was welcome, for I thought it 
might hold the espada. I might as well have stuck 


262 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


myself with his punta!” Again she laughed. “The 
child is marked with it—a little blade of a birthmark 
between his shoulders, just below the neck.” 

“Alas, alas!” said the priest sadly. “What 
imaginative ones are you gypsies 1” 

“He will go to the fight as a wild duck finds out 
hidden water. His eyes gaze straight. In the kill¬ 
ing, it all is with the eyes. He has no fear of animals 
—no more than little Chico. I have made a good son 
for Chiquito, if he would but own it! Name of God!” 
—And she rolled over and again hid her face in the 
wretched covers. 

The priest relifted the poor cup and persuaded 
her to drink further. “You have asked him, daugh¬ 
ter ?” 

“Asked him ?” she cried. “I have grovelled to him! 
Not alone yesterday, when I grovelled again, but 
years and years ago, when the boy was born! As 
you can well believe from looking at me, I am old! 
The boy is seven, which brings me to twenty-four— 
and I look it! Vanity is not one of my sins, priest, 
so let me tell you I was handsome once—and I am 
yet—when I am in his arms! He tells me so, and it 
is not in his line to flatter me!” 

“My daughter,” said the padre quietly, “I have 
been turning this matter in my mind. I doubt if 
Chico, even if he would marry you, would make you 
a happy wife. If he has not done so up to seven 
years, it is scarcely likely he will do it now. I think 
I see a good woman sleeping in you. If you will 
come home with me to Terassa you will have a roof, 
a garden, and honest work, and perhaps some good 
man there would marry you. My people are simple 
peasants—simple, forgiving, kindly. I cannot prom- 


THE HORNS OF EL DILEMMA 263 


ise you marriage, but I can promise you labour for 
your hands; and for your boy, whom I could love al¬ 
ready, a happy life with other little boys. I have 
thirty of them whom I call my own, and they study 
with me in my little church, and for their keep plant 
poppies for the market. Will you come?” 

She stared at him first with wonder, then strange 
laughter in her face. 

“And leave Chiquito, now I have him back? I 
would go to work in hell rather! Let me tell you the 
child was scarcely a child before he left me, and, save 
in the arena, for years I did not see him! And let me 
tell you I have worked, you priest! To keep two 
breaths, one in my body and one in the child’s, I have 
sold flowers in the Rambla; I have sung songs in the 
Buena Sombra—and in worse than that. And 
though I tell you that I am not bad, I have done 
things for the child when there was no other way! 
Let me tell you that, but let me tell you, too, I have 
not been unfaithful to Chiquito save for money!” 

“Save for money!” breathed the padre; and, clos¬ 
ing his eyes, he shuddered. 

“And why not?” she cried furiously. “Your view 
is very strange and wrong, I think! Should I starve 
and let his child starve unless our lives could go to 
save his life? Would they might and be done with 
it! And I see death coming for that matter! I used 
to say to my mother: ‘I have your looks, and Dios 
mio, I wish I had not, for I cannot bear the thought 
of their growing old!’ And she would laugh and 
answer: ‘Do not fear, Dolores. Though you have 
all my wild beauty of the mountains, you will not 
live to have their rugged furrows. Keep it till 


264 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


twenty-four and let it go, for twenty-five shall not 
see you—I read it! Be merry while you can, for 
remember your name! There is only one more un¬ 
lucky—Margarita; and that, in the name of Egypt, 
I would have put on no child, welcome or unwelcome!’ 
And I remembered my name, priest, the day I first 
saw Chico in the ring, when he killed his first grown 
bull, spreading his name from San Sebastian to 
Seville! I stood on the front tier of stone seats 
there in the new arena and wondered if I was pretty 
enough for him to look at! Dios! Mi Dios ! but I 
was mad that day! When he walked around the 
arena at the end, catching the hats and throwing 
them again, a peasant leaped over the barrier and 
kissed him, and I could have seized Chiquito’s sword 
and run the man through! I tell you I tore my own 
way down and over the tall fence, and through the 
blood of the bull, till I got my arms around his neck 
myself! No more than he have I ever turned at the 
sight of blood, but let me tell you I swooned when 
he said he would go with me!” 

“My Father! My Father!” breathed the padre. 
“Unfortunate girl, you are of those who are eaten 
away by the passions that smoulder!” 

“Passions?” she cried. “It is no passion that I 
have for Chico! Make a word, you—you with your 
learning!” She wrenched herself suddenly from the 
bed, and, tying one of the miserable sheets into a 
short gypsy skirt about her waist, paced desperately 
in her ragged dull white and red about the dingy 
room. “Leave him? Work? Marriage? I would die 
first while a breath of hope stays in me! For more 
than five years he deserted me, and I confess the 
thought of death, God forgive me, left me till again I 


THE HORNS OF EL DILEMMA 265 


had him. But I was faithful—God, except for 
bread!—and faithful would have stayed, though I 
knew he had forgotten me. Then something set me in 
his path again, and he came back to me a month ago. 
Dios! Dios! What a month! Joy—fear—the 
death fear! For while he is with me I fear it for 
Chiquito, not for me! When I sleep, I dream; when 
I wake, I know death is in his next fight! Dios mio! 
To-morrow is the day of St. Mercedes! He fights 
to-morrow!” 

“He fights to-day,” was on the padre’s lips, but he 
instinctively bit them. 

“It is why I sent the child to seek for him! I fear 
this fight! I fear it! And now you come—the black 
sign to a Gitana! I never could persuade him—yet 
I might! Tormento! ‘Passion’ you call it? Get 
some other word! You with your Latin, coin some 
word for it! Passion? It never passes! Choose 
your words, you with your celibacy!” She was 
pacing, wildly pacing—past his chair, by the 
shaking washstand, across to the window, round 
again. “Listen to me, you priest, and let me tell 
you what it is: it is a vast, quivering, thirsty, bot¬ 
tomless desire—desire to be as beautiful as he is— 
desire for his hair—his hands—his feet— You 
should see me twist his fingers in my hands—close, 
tight, weeping, calling on God—for all of him—oh, 
I could claw my nails across the clock to keep the 
hours back! I touch his hair and his forehead, and 
draw his eyelids down and lift them up again—and 
caress his whole face, as if I were a great maestro 
and he the great strong statue I was making. Then 
when God makes him sleep I lean over him! Pas¬ 
sion?—” With a choking cry she hurled herself 


266 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


forward across the bed and lay there. When she 
raised her head and looked dazedly about her the 
black priest was gone. 

Haying softly closed the door upon her moaning, 
he was going arduously down the darkened stairway 
—darkened and musty with the feel of death. In the 
outer sunshine Edmundo was sitting on the small 
sidewalk, his feet on the cobbles. Three doors away 
the herd of goats was busy; and again one of its 
undulant number, desperately lost a few feet away, 
was blatting insanely. 

As the padre touched his shoulder, Edmundo 
looked up with a smile. 

“A flock of goats,” he said simply, “thinks it is all 
one animal!” 

“You would do credit, my dear,” said the padre, 
“to the natural-history class of my little boys in 
Terassa! But just now, Edmundo, there is some¬ 
thing more important for you to do. I wish you to 
show me the right way to Chiquito’s house.” 

“Why?” asked Edmundo sharply. 

“I think I can make him come to her, Edmundo.” 

“I am afraid to go to his house. It is too late— 
he must get dressed to be in the paseo .” 

“Edmundo,” said the padre gently, “I promise 
you that if you will take me to Chiquito he will come 
to her—I promise you! Now will you show me the 
way?” 

After a long look at him, silently Edmundo took 
his hand once more; and on toward the stretch of 
gleaming sea, through narrow streets to the great 
swath of palm-lined water front, went the big black 
figure and the little green-and-yellow one; among 


THE HORNS OF EL DILEMMA 267 


cars and carriages they threaded into the old-new 
quarter known as Barceloneta. 

Padre Pedro, as the blue Mediterranean burst 
upon their sight, was talking to his small companion 
of red poppies—red poppies and yellow, like the flag 
of Spain; but until they were passing the grim old 
arena, Edmundo did not speak at all. 

“It is here that Chico fights?” the padre ques¬ 
tioned. 

“No, no!” Edmundo answered. “It is not good, 
the Antigua! Here was Fuamente nearly killed last 
month. He is in hospital, a horn to his heart; he 
may not live! Chiquito fights in the Plaza Nueva.” 

They had come to a street of soiled new tenements, 
and among a crowd of curious, waiting idlers, Ed¬ 
mundo paused. 

“It is here—the one flight,” and the padre made 
their way through the respectful lane that formed 
itself; he heard a whisper. 

“He confesses himself at home to-day instead of 
at the arena! They are devout now, with Fuamente 
punctured! Fuamente was too old—Chico is young! 
Too young is as bad as too old! Chico will live to 
be a new Fuamente! Still, it is just as well to be 
religious!” 

They made a strange trinity in the dusty room: 
the dusky fighter, staring in surprise; the portly, 
black-robed priest with kind, grave eyes of Mediter¬ 
ranean blue; the boy of dark brown glance and 
golden skin, all gazing from one to another. 

“But,” said the fighter when he had his breath, 
“though you are a father and must be respected, I 
do not understand you, or the matter!” 


268 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


“You should understand it,” said the padre. “You 
are a father, too.” 

The handsome hard face turned a deep animal red. 

“Your colour,” said Padre Pedro, “is appro¬ 
priate. Not only to a man who frightens bulls, but 
to a man who angers Christian priesthood.” 

Chico sprang up and, like the mad Dolores, paced 
the room. 

“It is bad luck for you to come to-day! The 
priest who waits to confess me at the arena would 
not talk so! There is bad luck in this! Dolores her¬ 
self would say so! Three times bad luck: you find 
me in the street, you find the boy, you find the gypsy! 
And what you ask at this hour, when I must dress 
for the corrida , is for me to go to her; and when my 
eye and brain and muscles must be all at the bull, 
to have my thoughts upon marrying! Bendito sea 
Dio , did I seek the woman? I am fond of her, to be 
sure, for I am no liar, and will confess so much; but 
marry her? I tell you I did not seek her in the first 
place—nor lately, when she found me in the street 
and dragged me home! As for the child, is it my 
fault? She did that to snare me to her! And for 
going back to her, what have I? Lamentations, fore¬ 
bodings, fears! She has filled me up with thoughts 
of death till I had to leave her for sheer fright my¬ 
self ! And now you come, the black sign she moans 
against, and ask—before the fight—my very life!” 

“I ask for self-respect,” the sad priest answered. 
“I ask respect for womanhood and fatherhood!” 

The fighter’s pace grew rapid and so did the 
padre’s words. “At least, will you not go to her? I 
tell you she does not know what day it is, and even 
without that knowledge she is frantic! Go comfort 


THE HORNS OF EL DELEMMA 269 


her! She would be well and peaceful if you would 
promise her marriage, and God and la Virgen Marfa 
would clothe and arm you in your fight! Victor, I 
would make you to-night the victor of yourself!” 

The espada gave a short laugh in his excitement. 

“Will you not leave me, padre? You do not know 
the trials of a fighter! You talked this morning of 
the horns of a dilemma—can you not see that you 
put me on such horns ? I cannot disrespect you, yet 
even now I should be dressing for the corrida /” 

“You can do that in five minutes,” said the padre. 

The fighter halted and stared at him incredu¬ 
lously. “In five minutes? Santo Dio , padre, how 
little you know! Every garment must be fitted like a 
plaster! I beg of you to leave me!” 

“Perhaps I could be helpful,” said the priest. 
“Prepare yourself now.” 

Again the fighter stared at him, colour anew surg¬ 
ing into his face. “In your presence—and the 
child’s ?” 

“Why not?” answered Padre Pedro. “Your body 
is God’s work. There is nothing to be ashamed of 
in it! Shame can only be in what you do with it.” 

The handsome dark face crimsoned, but the espada 
threw off his coat. 

“Think well,” pleaded the earnest priest as other 
clothing fell swiftly to the floor, “before you quite 
deny me! If you should marry, yet regret the child, 
I would take him for you to my country village, and 
rear him with my other little boys! Let me tell you, 
he would be my thirty-first!” 

“Why shall you take me to the country?” de¬ 
manded Edmundo sharply. 

“Because, my dear, you would enjoy it, and would 


270 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


not be frightened there. He would learn,” the priest 
continued urgently, “an industry, and how to read 
and write!” 

“I am not frightened here!” exclaimed Edmundo. 
“I wish to be an espada!” 

At the words the unclothed fighter paused and 
looked strangely at the child, his dark eyes travelling 
intently over the small, finely knitted limbs. Sud¬ 
denly he turned to the padre. The child had shrunk 
a little space away, his dark eyes, wide with admira¬ 
tion, moving fascinated up and down the beautiful 
naked animal before them. “The child is well enough. 
If I admit him, will you be satisfied? I will take him 
with me in the paseo —if you will leave me! If I so 
much acknowledge him, will you go?” 

Though his eyes leaped with partial gladness, a 
new cloud came into the padre’s serious face. 

“A boy so young—to the bullfight, in the cuad- 
rilla! Yet—yes, yes, if you will do so it will glad¬ 
den her! And I will leave you and carry her the 
news. But may I come to you again to-night? If 
I now leave you, may I come again?” 

A little sound had come from the child’s lips, and 
he had crept to the espada on his knees, and was kiss¬ 
ing his hand. 

“Yes, padre, yes! Go—what help I need, I think 
the child can give me! No, no, stay a little, padre! 
It is late, late! Will you confess me?” 

The padre paused abruptly near the door; but his 
hand, toward the knob, stayed raised, and his face 
grew white a trifle. 

“Yes,” he said at last with a little shudder, “I 
will confess you! God has worked upon my visit in 
strange ways—Hombre, I am of simple character, 


THE HORNS OF EL DILEMMA 271 


like my village people; and I did not think, in my 
simplicity, that God, in His teaching of me, would 
ask me to confess a city man! Edmundo, go into the 
hallway.’* He walked with the child to the door and 
shut him out. Then he stepped back to his chair 
again, and the naked fighter knelt before him. 

As the priest hastened toward the old cathedral a 
figure equally hastening caught his notice. It was 
a woman’s—clothed in dusty black of elaborate lace, 
dull red showing through it, and she had drawn a 
red rose into the mantilla. Her pale cheeks were 
red, too, with bought rouge. As they came near 
each other a quick cry sprang from her, and she 
was at him with fingers that twitched upon the but¬ 
tons of his robe. 

“You deceived me! To-day is Mercedes Day! I 
shall stop him! Name of God!—you have been to 
him?” 

“It is too late, my girl—you cannot stop him. 
Listen to me: he admits the child is his, and takes 
him beside him in the paseo! Come, will you now go 
home?” 

She did not seem to hear him, for her ears were 
fastened on another sound—a muffled clash of music 
from the Ramblas. 

“It is the paseo! I must see it! I must follow 
it!” They were in the narrow street of San Hon- 
orato; and, seizing his arm, she dragged him for¬ 
ward, amid men and running children, and he found 
himself, breathless, swirled into the seething, sunny 
Rambla del Centro. “Santo Dios, a funeral! Did 
I not tell you, priest, that he would die? Name of 
God, look!” Priests, acolytes, a black, gilt hearse, 


272 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


mourners, trailed by to a doleful chant, smoky with 
incense between banks of lowered hats and under 
falling brown planet a leaves; then, like a great 
bright snake came the paseo —music; caparison; 
panoply; carriages bearing the espadas, sitting bolt 
upright, stoic, wooden faced; poignant colour— 
worming its threat of triumph through the old gay 
quarter. 

“Look at him!” Dolores screamed. “Name of 
God, but he has the child with him! Chico! 
Chiquito!” 

“Hush,” said the padre, “you will harm yourself!” 

“Is that the Russian dancer riding with them? 
What right has she? God and Virgen Marfa, may 
the black curse get her!” The crowd was forcing 
them upward through the Ramblas; cars, mule carts, 
carriages, were under way again; the music was 
fainter toward the Cataluna. “Come, we will never 
get there! I must see him die!” 

“What, you go?” gasped the padre, striving heav¬ 
ily to keep her pace. “But you are mad, Dolores! 
Your own death is more likely! Besides, I dare not 
leave you!” 

“The harm is done now, you with your black coat! 
You shall go with me! See—I cling to you!” 

“I to the bullfight? Dios mio, no! I have not 
since I was an unthinking child! Nor will I! You 
are mad, mad, Dolores!” 

“Should not a priest be where the people are? 
Come! Come!” she screamed; and dazing him with 
her wild outcry, she dragged him on, on. The music 
of the glittering paseo floated in fragments back to 
them. Far ahead the great round brick arena sat 


THE HORNS OF EL DILEMMA 273 


dull red on its little hill of young locusts; the shops 
of “Little Paris” fell away. 

“Did you see that picture, padre P Of the great 
Andalusian bull, pure white? They have named him, 
for he is a special bull. They have named him El 
Dilema —only, with two m’s, like the English word— 
We are so mad for American matters now— And so 
much speak their tongue, since the English Queen— 
Does it mean a good word in the English, padre?” 

“It is the same as the Spanish,” said the padre 
absently. His brow was damp and his plodding legs 
were shaking. Her grip upon him seemed to numb 
his arm. 

“Santo Dios, but it is no marvel my own name is 
‘Afflictions*!” They had come to the shouting, 
rushing crowd at the foot of the slope, seething up 
the steps, storming at the ticket booths, and now the 
priest instinctively hung back; she forced him on 
and up; up, up, in the pellmelling multitude—down 
again, into the confines of the huge arena—down, on 
down, pushing astonished men and girls aside on the 
tall stone ledges of seats, down through the throng, 
almost to the circling aisle between the lowest row 
and the barrier that struck the level of their feet. 
Opposite where they stood the band was blaring, 
over the dull roar of expectant voices, the French 
melody of Spain’s glad adoption, “Toreador! 
Toreador!” to the stamp of thirty-two thousand 
rhythmic feet—minus four, perhaps, for the padre 
and the woman stood still, trembling. Midway to 
their right was the gate where the bull would enter— 
six bulls, if no great tragedy occurred; and all about 
them noise, red colour, yellow sunlight, dark shadow 
across the brown dirt—music, sunlight, red colour, 


274 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


every colour, mantillas, fans, fluttering long bright 
green programs that swam bending through the air 
from gallery down to gallery. 

Far opposite, with a change of brilliant melody, 
the barrier swung open; picadors, on thin, dilapi¬ 
dated horses, espadas, matador, marched in; the 
quadrille began; pink stockings; spangled jackets, 
red and silver, gold and lavender, black hats, black 
cuques; music; the thunder of shouting. 

They were gone; fighters holding in their hands 
their drooping capas of colour insinuating, rousing, 
maddening to the bull’s eye, red, crimson, cerise, 
magenta, mauve, pink, purple, stood in readiness 
about the vast ring of sunshine and shadow; in a 
breathless hush, the hush that comes only on the sea 
and on humanity, the barrier midway was slid apart 
and the white bull, El Dilemma, his neck, at the spot 
where the sword at last must enter, marked with a 
cluster of streaming ribbons held in his flesh by a 
bloody thong, stood for one second in the dazzling 
light, staring with high-thrown head at the blazing, 
screaming, whistling spectacle. Then straight at 
the purple cloak ahead of him he charged. Exquisite 
in their grace the men ran tempting him, swirling 
their cloaks below his snorting nostrils, escaping, 
leaping the barrier, returning; but the padre saw no 
more—his eyes were closed. The judge’s whistle 
blew, the mob yelled, the picadors came and went; 
once, at a crash and shout, the priest opened his 
eyes; just below them lay a man with his blindfold 
horse, its bowels on the dirt—the cloth above his 
armour rent open, espadas dragging him away—the 
white bull, bellowing, lifting his horns from the quiv¬ 
ering beast’s entrails to dash for a magenta cloak— 


THE HORNS OF EL DILEMMA 275 


the humble puntillero cutting the horse’s neck. Again 
the whistle blew. 

“See! See!” cried out the woman at his side. 
“The banderillas now! Chico! Chiquito!” And 
perforce the padre watched him, fascinated. The 
darted sticks, held upward in his two hands, were 
wound in green and yellow. His legs were brilliant 
pink, his jacket and torso glittering—blue, with 
bright silver; his trouser legs black within and gold 
without. Under a great noise, jerking the bright 
sticks before him in the air, he was dancing backward 
in the ring. The band had swept softly into the 
breathless French Apache waltz with all the tone lust 
of its Spanish rhythm, half the people, even the 
woman at the sad priest’s side, taking up its Spanish 
words: 

Oh, this is the tune, friends! 

We're Cavaliers of the Moon, friends! 

Each hoy sweeps down like a loon, friends. 

Wild with moon-madness, moon-badness, moon- 
gladness — 

But El Dilemma was not of the moon. He was 
of the earth, and the noise that he was able to make 
abruptly reminded the innumerable people in the 
arena of hell. With the unholy sound of a rushing 
train’s weird hoot through the night, he charged. In 
with the ribbons of his neck went the maddening 
banderillas, and swung there as he planted his hoofs 
in bellowing attempts to shake them out. Under his 
very horns Chiquito dodged. A hundred hats swirled 
down to him as he circled the ring, bowing, smiling, 
catching them, tossing them deftly back. The priest 
felt his stiff black headgear seized from him. The 


276 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


woman had hurled it. Chiquito caught it, paused 
startled, returned it, saw Dolores, went a little white. 
Again the priest saw no more. 

Nor did he look even as the howling of the throng 
proclaimed that once more Chico had come within 
the ring, hatless now—for the killing; in his right 
hand his silvery glittering espada; in his left the 
short stick covered with the flag of fluttering, final 
bull scarlet. The great beast, dripping foam a little, 
but no blood, out of his mouth, stood swaying, near 
exhaustion in his rage and pain, his white flanks 
back of the shoulders streaked red; he eyed his fate 
—the flag of red, the sword of silver. Three times 
he charged—three times the stand was wrong—three 
times must Chico spring—three times the fighters 
with their gay-hued cloaks jump round him, swirling 
his eyes toward the last position of his destiny, and 
leaping to safety over the barrier. 

And then, the fourth time, he and Chico stood, the 
sword raised, pointed, for the muerte. Now the 
priest looked, for the woman seized him with a sud¬ 
den shriek. 

“ Maldicion! Condenados! Who dressed him? He 
is torn there, under the arm! Santo Dios, if he 
feels it!” 

Some one else had seen, too. Up the back of a 
fighter rewinding outside the barrier, a little figure, 
like a lithe animal, had clambered with the irresistible 
suddenness of a cat, and was borne with him into the 
great ring. Through the wondering clamour of the 
astonished mob it sped toward Chico, madly. Chico 
saw it. 

Those who could see, saw two things—they saw the 
blade fall, and they saw the child raised up in Chico’s 


THE HORNS OF EL DILEMMA 277 


hands, above the horns, and tossed across the bull 
to drop upon the dirt a rod away. Then, with a 
great deafening instinctive shout, they saw a third 
thing: El Dilemma had not wavered, and they saw 
Chiquito hurtle and fall. And a fourth thing. For, 
as the fighters closed about their leader, the child 
had run and madly seized the blade. For one in¬ 
stant, insanely uplifted by his two small hands, its 
silver glittered—then flashing, disappeared. It was 
a coward’s blow, from the side—but all young fight¬ 
ers must use that in learning. 

Outside, sick women and a few men were pouring 
down the slope, where waiting counters had been 
raised with giant placards. Meat of the First 
Bull Cheap! Idiots stay away!” Inside, in the 
hell of noise, the padre only knew that he was run¬ 
ning—running through dirt with some one at his 
heels whose voice, as she stumbled screaming and 
screaming, beat on his eardrums louder than all the 
rest. Then she fell—but the same screams, hor¬ 
rible, mad, long, one-toned, kept on in his ears, on, 
and again and again, as he thumped down at Chico’s 
side and lifted the dying head from the child’s lap to 
his own. His heart, his soul, throbbed trembling into 
prayer as he felt, through his foot, the quivering of 
a different dying life—for dug into the earth against 
his boot was the great bloody horn of El Dilemma, 
his huge white profile in the dust, one horn aloft. 

“Tell Dolores,” whispered the fighter weakly, 
“that my life went to save the boy—ours, I suppose. 
Tell her I—liked her.” 

Through the unlessened din the mad screams were 
crawling nearer—nearer, as he began the last rites. 
Then, as he put the sign of the cross to the twitching 


278 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


mouth, they stopped. Suddenly Edmundo wrenched 
his sleeve, and he looked up. The child was staring, 
his eyes growing wider and wider and darker and 
darker. 

“Oh!” he cried, striking his small hands together. 
“Oh—oh—oh—oh!” And clutching the padre’s 
gown he clung to it in a frenzied paroxysm of aban¬ 
doned wailing. Following his eyes the padre’s fell 
upon the prostrate, unscreaming Dolores. 

She lay on the other horn of the great Dilemma. 


IX 


INSTRUMENTO 

S OFT and drooping as the Virgin’s hands, the 
padre’s garden lay rumpled like a painted fab¬ 
ric behind his house, breathing its motionless per¬ 
fume into the gold, still sunlight. 

Most of this incense was the warm smell of the late 
jacintos; yet the yellow rays drew also to them¬ 
selves the inner nature of waxlike roses, and the faint 
beauty of quiet violets. 

The padre was happy as he moved about in the 
dreamy heaviness; and it was strange, he thought, 
that he should not be sad so late as the twenty-first 
of October. Every other year that he could remem¬ 
ber had brought wind instead of breezes, chill instead 
of languorous temperateness, before the lovely Saint 
Ursula’s day. And with a limp white jacinto in one 
hand, and a fallen yellow rose in his other, he 
thanked his Father, and then the fair saint herself, 
for having let his garden live so long this year. 

Up from the garden to his ancient church the 
manured grass rolled in velvet waves, greener than 
any other in the north of grassless Spain; and di¬ 
rectly down from it, toward the rugged chasm, along 
the wide-swathing track where freshets of undammed 
mountain rain must sweep each autumn and each 
spring, the pink earth climbed steadily from red to 
old-rose colour, till it crumbled over the terraces of 
279 


280 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


white stone that in turn strewed the chasm with its 
gleaming dust and jagged fragments. 

His travelling thoughts seemed to mingle with the 
soft, bright atmosphere—an atmosphere so thin and 
fine that he felt as if he saw with eyes as well as 
mind the miracle that, far leagues behind the first 
tall, lavender mountain, lay hidden from Terassa— 
the great pile of God’s granite, Monte Sagrado; as 
if he saw, too, beyond the great valley and its 
strange, round hills, the huge, still Mediterranean 
mysteriously drinking her colour from the beneficent 
sky, or as mysteriously giving it; as if he could see, 
resting faintly on the far deep turquoise, even the 
gray-blue of the lonely Balearics. 

“There can be no wickedness in the world!” he 
whispered tensely, closing and unclosing his eyes. 
“Not this day! Not in such hours! Not in such 
sunlight! There is not. I will not allow it!” 

He turned with a great start, for the torn sound 
of trampled flower stalks had sounded behind him, 
and the small person of Tito, though not at all sug¬ 
gesting wickedness, yet came upon him with the des¬ 
perate swoop of a bandit; and his uplifted, flowered 
hands had quick work to do to keep the flying body 
from danger, for Tito had sprung upon his neck, 
while from Tito’s own came a torrent of excited 
speech. 

“She is here again! Again! Nanette’s lady! Who 
gave you your little dog, Nanette! I swear it! The 
American lady! The rich lady! At the fonda! In 
the carriage without mules! It smells worse than 
the garden!” 

“You confuse me!” cried the padre, setting him 


INSTRUMENTS 


281 


sharply down. “The North American lady? The 
one who-” 

“Without mules, padre! And her fur is off, yet 
she looks rich without it! I swear it! Quite rich! 
She pulled me over the wheel, and kissed me, and 
asked me if you were alive!” 

“Thanks to our own dear Father,” said the padre, 
pulling Tito’s hand from around his knee, “I am 
still alive. Have you ever noticed, my dear, that 
God protects the unwary? Else my gown might 
have been damaged again! Are you calm? You will 
be if you smell this pretty flower? What a sweet 
little shoulder you have, my dear! Let me turn it 
gently this way, till you see the valley bridge; and 
then, nearer, just where my finger points to from 
under your chin, the white house where Carlos lives. 
Go and tell him, Tito, that the American lady is in 
Terassa, and that he should pay his compliments to 
her. If he is rude, tell him that I have already gone 
to the fonda to pay my own. Will you go, dear— 
and will you be excited?” 

“Yes,” said Tito, darting to the pink slope behind 
the last flowers of the garden. 

“But you must not!” cried the running padre, 
catching his collar as he put one leg on the sliding 
earth. “You must be calm with Carlos.” But from 
under his right hand the corduroy collar jerked, and 
from the low barricade the black velvet of Tito’s left 
leg vanished; and the padre, half smiling, half pray¬ 
ing, walked back among the flowers, and plucked one 
here, or caressed one there, step after step through 
the small aisles of jacintos, through the gold vibra¬ 
tions of the blue-and-white afternoon, through the 



282 TERASSA OF SPAIN 

sacred hours of the saint whose name was so pretty 
—Ursula. 

“I am glad, my Father, that she is come again,” 
he said, with silent voice, yet moving lips. “May it 
please you that she is not in trouble now. I will go 
promptly to the fonda; but she is wealthy, and must 
have some little while for rest.” 

Yet apparently she had given herself none, for, 
feeling an earthly presence near him, he again turned 
quickly, and saw her standing but a few feet from 
him, waist-deep in the taller blossoms, silently re¬ 
garding him. Though she met his full gaze, and with 
her strange little smile, she did not speak, as if there 
were later time in plenty for the use of words. 

Though in truth she had not on the drooping sil¬ 
ver furs that had so marked her out in small Terassa 
—though in fact she had come out into the season’s 
lingering warmth without a hat, like any peasant, 
and with an unfamiliar long robe falling from the 
shoulders of her impressive form, yet anywhere, even 
in a great city filled with people, he would have 
known her—from the glinting, burnished red hair, 
with its flecks and shifting threads of brass and cop¬ 
per, and from that strange half smile at one corner 
of her half-nervous, half-determined lips. 

He stepped toward her with the two smallest of 
his large fingers stretched out to clasp her absurdly 
little hands, while his great thumbs and their com¬ 
panions held up for her his garnering of jacintos 
and yellow-crimson over-blown roses. 

“Yes, I would have known you anywhere.” 

“In this?” She smiled again, holding out the 
shining copper robe from where it drooped through 
the green of the stalks and the sunlit white of the 


INSTRUMENTO 


283 


jacintos. “I threw by the purples for you. Did you 
think them vain? I did not ask you. Or gloomy? 
I did not ask. Or unbecoming? I did not ask you 
that. I have done everything you told me—except 
to become a Catholic.” 

A small shadow came into his eyes, but he dis¬ 
pelled it quickly. “Did you become happy for me?” 

“I became—not unhappy,” she answered. 

“Then you have been a good pupil—for one who 
left her master,” he said. “I am glad, my daughter. 
And that you have come again I am happy, my 
dear.” 

The eyes that she had lowered upon her weight of 
blossoms glanced swiftly up at him, and then away, 
and a tinge of quick colour deepened the faint one 
in her clear white cheeks. 

“You are strange—you North Americans,” said 
the padre, his expression puzzled. “You are full of 
strange, quick little moods, unlike my loved Span¬ 
iards. Why did you suddenly blush, my dear?” 

“Because of—that,” she said. “I did not know 
whether I would be truly welcome to you—yes, yes* 
I knew; but an American always doubts affection. 
Well, I find you completely the same, except—more 
so. You never called me that when I knew you be¬ 
fore—‘my—my dear. 5 ” 

“I knew it,” said the padre thoughtfully. 

“Knew what?” she asked swiftly. 

He looked steadily into her eyes before he spoke. 
Then he said: 

“That you are still unhappy. 55 

She looked as steadily back into his, at last with¬ 
out her hard little smile, and with a seriousness of 
face that softened its doubtful lines. 


284 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


“You know when I do not evade, my—my padre. 
I am less unhappy.” 

“So much is well,” he answered gently. “My 
daughter, let me tell you something of which, in this 
hour of friends remeeting, to be truly happy—it is 
Saint Ursula’s day. Look at my garden. That 
saint has never found such flowers in Terassa before. 
Are you not well come?” 

“How strange!” she said slowly. “That is my 
name—Ursula. Did you know that when you 
spoke?” 

“No,” said the padre, “for you did not sign your 
letters—a curious custom, yet one whose intimacy 
pleased me. Here we call you always ‘the American 
lady,’ with our breath a little taken.” 

Lifting one of her blossom-filled hands, he drew 
it under and around his arm. “Come, my dear for¬ 
eign friend. For conversation, sitting in the poorest 
chairs is easier than standing among the richest 
flowers.” 

With intwined arms, the large black figure and the 
sheening copper one pressed between the thick blos¬ 
soms to the pathway by the house, and around, and 
into the low, quiet room that the woman so poign¬ 
antly remembered. 

“And your thirty little boys?” she asked. “Do 
they still work in the poppy fields, giving you one 
peseta each year, perhaps, to pay for what you give 
them—their keep, and your time and worry, and 
then, as if orphans were born to luxuries, a great, 
glittering, golden heart to play with?” 

“My dear,” said the padre, “you exaggerate—one 
of your sins, my dear. But I will confess to you 
that I myself have been extravagant, and may have 


INSTRUMENTO 


285 


one more peseta this year, for, thanks to God’s will, 
my little boys have for a whole week been thirty- 
one.” 

“I could have known it!” she said. “And yet I 
selfishly came to tax the golden heart some more.” 

“To tax it, my dear,” he answered, “is your privi¬ 
lege. And to follow your courteous and pretty 
thought, to be paid in gold is but your right. You 
said that you have followed much of my counsel,” 
he continued. “Then it must happily be that you 
put away your grief—which was wrong, because too 
strong, my dear. From Simpatica as well as from 
you, dear friend, I have known, I have myself felt, 
indeed, the sad tragedy that befell the pitiful little 
circus, and how you, with your sensitivity, let all 
its inner sorrow colour your soul—even—your 
heart. It was strangely that you had even but then 
been advised to come to little Terassa if you needed 
happiness. And you did, and I assured you that 
God’s message for you in Terassa was to unbar that 
soul and heart to whatever might be—new friends, 
new peoples, new—affections, perhaps. Is it not so?” 

“Yes,” she said; “and I have tried, Padre Pedro, 
and—succeeded. Succeeded too much. So that 
now, with the going of the old pain, the old beauty 
is gone. I feel like a traitor, Can you understand 
that?” 

“Yes,” he answered. “Yet is it not better 
even so?” 

“Yes, yes. But—there is nothing in its place— 
nothing at all. Simply space where at least pain 
used to be. Oh, padre, the sense of failure is so 
great! And the sense of pride! With you, out of 
the whole world of millions of people, I lost that 


286 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


pride somehow. I have been Catholic enough to 
confess things shamelessly to you.” 

“My dear,” said the padre, after studying her face 
through a little silence, “the rich purple colours that 
you used to wear—shall I tell you why I did not like 
them, when I knew, as indeed only a priest could, 
how beautiful they were? Because, my daughter, 
they were the colours of the thoughts you had. And 
have you not let me think to-day that your heart 
and mind are now a rich, a golden, bronze?” 

“They are, padre! I mean, they were!” She had 
lifted her head, and again he saw, through the shim¬ 
mering motes, the curious ruby-red light that could 
flash from her gold-brown eyes. “For a little while, 
padre, they were. I swear it. See how Spanish has 
become my speech! I have travelled through your 
Spain, and your people. Their poverty, their gen¬ 
tleness in poverty, their affectionateness! I say to 
you these things have made me wish to be something 
with my money, if I could not with my art—no, not 
my art, my—paint. Then I failed again. I do not 
know how to give away money. I become embar¬ 
rassed, as a rich person always must in the presence 
of poverty. They respect themselves so! I am 
afraid of hurting their feelings. So I put back my 
purse, and looked at scenery. Looked and looked till 
I could bear myself, and my struggle to follow your 
advice, not one day more. That is why I have come 
to Terassa.” 

“On a happy day, my dear,” said the padre 
quietly. “Is it not—with such a garden, and such a 
saint to enjoy it? And as you are not fastened, like 
her, into this one day of the calendar, shall you not 
stay longer than before—until, for instance, your 


INSTRUMENTS 


287 


mind becomes as soft and pretty as your hair and 
your beautiful dress? It would be happy for us if 
you would have a little house of your own from some 
one—more domestic than the fonda if more humble.” 

“Could I?” she asked eagerly. 

“It would be expensive,” hesitated the padre; “but 
you have called yourself wealthy, and for a small inn, 
the fonda has charged you, I am led to fear, un¬ 
kindly. Perhaps you could like Amarillis’s house, 
for I noticed you once strangely intent upon Ama- 
rillis.” 

“If her house is like her,” said the lady, “it will 
be very quiet. I could have it for what? Perhaps 
two hundred pesetas a month—or four hundred per¬ 
haps-” 

“Dios Santo!” cried the padre. “Would you ruin 
her? She must have no more than fifty, or she would 
lose her balance trying to do some extraordinary 
thing with it. She shall go and sleep with Ines, who 
is also anxious for a little money, and give her half, 
and come each day and do your housework, while 
Ines does her own for both.” 

“I do not understand it at all,” she said; “but I 
have utter faith in you. If she may have but fifty 
for her lovely little house, will you take the one hun¬ 
dred and fifty for your church?” 

“You are not a Catholic, my dear,” he answered 
gravely. “You say you have ‘utter faith’ in me. Am 
I more important than God?” 

“To me—yes.” 

“Ursula,” said the padre, sighing, “you know that 
my keenest joy in Terassa has been in my Fields of 
Industry, and my thirty beloved little boys who 
plant the poppies in them. I never call them or- 



288 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


phans, for I dislike the word; but you know their cir¬ 
cumstances ; and such, dear friend, is my belief in 
your character that I would give you one, if it would 
make you happy. Indeed, I will give you the thirty- 
first, whom I found in Barcelona just a week ago— 
one who is almost as sweet as Tito. Would that 
make you happy, Ursula ?” 

“Dios mio!” she cried, raising her hands in panic. 
“Truly, truly, padre, I love you for your trust in 
me. But—why, I would not know how to undress 
him!” 

“I did not know myself the night my first orphan 
was left here,” said the padre. “But he did not sleep 
in his clothes that night—or ever again, I fear. Let 
me show you Edmundo—he is asleep now.” 

He did not see her gesture of dismay, for he had 
gone from the room, and she heard him stepping 
softly up his diminutive stairway. When he re¬ 
turned, he was holding in his arms the limp, strag¬ 
gling figure of a little Spanish boy, so Spanish and 
so prettily yellow of skin that he might have slipped, 
in his small green smock, off the mottled bark of a 
planeta tree. 

The padre watched her anxiously. She stood look¬ 
ing at the quiet, small figure in his arms, and then 
silently through the window. 

“So this, Ursula, could not make you happy?” he 
asked. 

“No.” Without turning, she still gazed out across 
the Chasm Road into the distant valley. 

“Well, well,” sighed the padre, sinking upon his 
chair and drawing the heavy, small head more rest- 
fully against his heart; “you know better than I, 
perhaps. Selfishly I am glad not to part with him. 


INSTRUMENTO 


289 


The next poppies should be the prettier because of 
such a pretty boy. What can make you happy, 
Ursula ?” 

“According to your own words last year,” she 
answered, “my—wealth. That young man who 
would not take my money—is he still here? Does 
he still paint ? I have often thought of him. Padre, 
in your Spain I have now been to many places, and 
seen in them so much—so very much, padre—that 
was lovely painting. Well, in one of your two 
great artists who are alive there is no more sunlight 
than in his bad, bad pictures, and in the other there 
is no more humanity. Ask him again, padre. Why 
is he so stubborn—so—so brutally rude? Does your 
English comprehend that little word ? He would not 
shake hands with me when he said good-bye, and 
if that is hurt pride it is worse pride than you have 
accused in me, or else it is your own fault, for you 
made the proposal to me. I was hurt. I have said 
it, and I am hurt yet. Well, ask him again.” 

The padre hesitated in his words more anxiously 
than he yet had done. 

“Daughter, how you thrust difficulty upon me— 
much as I love to strive for you. I have not under¬ 
stood him—I myself. You know, he is an agnostic, 
like you—and without the sweetness that God put 
only in women. I am afraid, my dear, that it is 
partly because I am, despite my book reading, so 
provincial that I am weak and embarrassed toward 
gentlemen; and if Carlos is not a gentleman, then 
all my learning has not taught me just what he is. 
Well, am I a good messenger, then? Besides, must 
I lose him? He is content here, working in the vine¬ 
yards for his necessities, and making his pictures for 


290 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


pleasure out of his own little money, which he has 
never explained to me. Must you have him a great, 
famous painter even if he would?” 

“You do not quite understand, dear,” she said, 
with a sigh so long that it covered the little word 
even from her own hearing. “Oh, padre, try again!” 

“Would you not try, then, yourself?” He watched 
her pleadingly. “I am sure he is this moment at 
the fonda, waiting with his respects, for Tito fell 
all the way down the chasm to inform him.” 

She turned upon him in a swift demand of help¬ 
less anger: “Why did you tell him?” But she 
gasped back what more would come, for her flashing 
eyes discovered Carlos standing there between them 
in the doorway, waiting for the end of their speech, 
which for some moments had been meaningless Eng¬ 
lish. 

She came to him with one of her two smiles—the 
one not hard, but gracious—and held out her hand, 
with the quick word “ Salud /” And he bent his head 
over it. He was very slender, yet this, by any one 
seeing him for the first time, was not at once noticed, 
because, perhaps, of the pure olive skin he had, with 
something coming up through it that was almost 
as red as the lips, whose two corners drooped even 
when the soft lines were parted. 

As his head hovered over the outstretched hand 
that he did not touch, her fair cheeks gradually 
flushed to the deep colour of his, and then grew to 
their own peculiar white again as she dropped her 
hand and turned toward the priest’s chair. 

“Padre,” she said as suddenly as if Carlos had 
not been there, “where is Nanette? To think that 
I forgot her—the thing I gave you because I loved 


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it more than anything else! Is she dead—or given 
away ?” 

“Nanette, Nanette!” called the padre, and the 
sluggish silver mass moved from under a cushion in 
the corner. 

“Oh—oh!” the lady cried, slipping to her knees. 
“Could you hear my voice so long, and not come 
out? Do you remember me, Nanette?” 

Nanette paused, with her head turned so much 
that a part of one eye showed through, and then 
progressed silkily and sulkily toward the padre’s 
chair. 

“Nanette!” exclaimed the lady; and Nanette, 
annoyed into a startled whine, leaped on and buried 
herself in the padre, pushing her nose between his 
black, comfortable gown and the sleeping Edmundo. 

“There you have it!” cried the woman. “Some¬ 
thing I would have sworn cared for me!” And 
rising, she turned again to the window. 

The padre’s hands lay on Nanette, nervously 
stroking her, while his arms tightened Edmundo 
against his heart. 

“Carlos,” he said slowly, “it is a duty in this 
world to make people happy when we can do so 
reasonably. Dear boy, I know from our friend here 
that she would be happier than she now is if you 
would take enough of her money to become famous. 
I understand too little of such matters to know 
the value of the case, but giving is more blessed 
than receiving, thence her happiness; and I feel 
that your part would be truly giving unless you 
have a sensible reason to refuse her. Carlos, have 
you one?” 


292 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


“I must not take her money,” said Carlos, look¬ 
ing at the floor instead of at either of them. 

“Carlos,” said the padre, with sudden determina¬ 
tion, “I have little reasoning power with either you 
or her, because you are not of my faith; but I 
have a peculiar feeling in me to-day that some¬ 
thing is wrong somewhere that can be righted.” 

“Come!” said the American woman, passing be¬ 
tween them. “Be kind!” 

“I deliberately do not want to take your money,” 
said Carlos. 

“Oh, there you have it again!” she exclaimed, 
turning to the padre with hot English words. “What 
is there anywhere that I can do in life? Now do you 
see what I have meant all along? You see, it is the 
same as it was with Nanette.” 

Carlos jumped to his feet, clenching his hands 
and closing his eyes. “Though I do not know Eng¬ 
lish, padre, I am not deaf and dumb and blind. The 
lady has likened me to her dog!” 

“Carlos,” cried the padre, “this is my house! I 
do not understand either of you, but I love you 
both, and I will not allow violence from you to her!” 

He had sprung up in his indignation, clasping the 
in his indignation; and now, under the flames of their 
sharp speech, Edmundo’s eyes gradually opened, 
and in their sleepy confusion looked dazedly up into 
those of the American lady. Wonderingly they 
rested upon her, gazing and gazing, until his grop¬ 
ing mind made him turn his head, and he found 
himself looking into the face of Carlos. Then he 
quickly turned his head again. The vision was still 
there, golden and copper-coloured and white, with 
little gleams of light, in a rough, dancing circle, all 


INSTRUMENT*} 


293 


around her hair; but she was looking at Carlos, not 
at him, and from his disappointment and the blink¬ 
ing sunlight he shut his eyes tight, with a little 
shudder. 

“We wakened him,” said the padre. “I will put 
him to bed again.” And he went softly from the 
room. Nanette walked dully after him; and in the 
stillness of the small room the American lady went 
to Carlos, reaching forth her hand. “Forgive me! 
Remember, I am proud like you, and you had hurt 
my feelings.” 

“I do not want to hurt your feelings!” cried 
Carlos, with tears breaking onto his cheeks; and 
he stepped through the doorway and ran down the 
Chasm Road. 

Her face was very white when the padre came 
again into the room. 

“Ursula,” he said slowly, “will you not change 
your mind about your money, and use it for a dif¬ 
ferent purpose? There are many kinds of starvation 
in this hungry world, and I am sure that I clearly 
see a particular kind in you. Will you not even try 
Edmundo? He has not yet worked in the poppy 
fields. Perhaps you might spare him some pain, for 
little boys are sometimes very much frightened when 
they first come to Terassa.” 

She stood looking through the brazened window, 
and then curiously at him. 

“Padre,” she said, “has it ever occurred to you 
that a woman wants to be desired? To her a child 
is only the culmination of her desire, the proof to 
her of— his* Do I offend you? I do not want a 
child unless it represents my—love.” 


294 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


“Did you see how he gazed at you?” asked the 
padre. “Can you remain unhappy when any one, 
even a young little orphan, could look at you like 
that ?” 

“Evidently I can,” she said, “for I am very un¬ 
happy.” 

The padre sighed. 

“I will urge you no more, my daughter. And, in¬ 
deed, it would have taxed me in pure gold to give 
him up. I merely had believed, my dear, that God’s 
lovely hand might have worked in it. Everything 
with God’s purpose in it must do good, and I had 
childishly thought that Edmundo would surely 
prove, if not what you desired, at least an instru¬ 
ment, my dear.” 

“An instrument? Yes, padre.” Her little smile 
came again to the corner of her mouth, harder than 
he had ever seen it before. “It might well be the 
punta which the poor, contemptible hired-man has 
to use in the bull fight when the bull has not been 
properly killed! Simply something to put me out 
of my misery by mercifully cutting my neck when 
my fight was virtually over!” 

“Oh, you are bitter!” cried the padre bitterly. 

“Yes, and I am bitter on Saint Ursula’s day,” she 
exclaimed. “I think I remember the legend. It was 
something about virgins' bones , was it not?” 

“My daughter,” said the padre, “I wish to ask you 
a question.” 

Rising, he drew her to the window, into the small 
remaining shaft of sunlight. 

“Is this a bronze gown?” he asked, lifting the 
edge of it. 


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The thirty little boys were diligently at work 
when the padre led Edmundo down to the Fields of 
Industry next morning. 

“Antonito!” called the padre, summoning the 
handsome master of their labour into the highway. 
“It is a long time since we have had a new little 
boy in Terassa; therefore your pleasure this morn¬ 
ing should be very great.” And he gave Edmundo 
to him, patting the small, dark head. “Antonito is 
very kind, my dear, and you need not work hard at 
first. Remember two things only—be happy, and 
obey Antonito. Will you remember, my dear?” 

Edmundo did not answer. He was gazing up at 
Antonito, staring mutely at his wonderful yellow 
hair. So much good looks, spread like a whole day’s 
butter on a single piece of bread, made him want 
to cry; and it was in silence that the padre went 
away, and that Antonito led him through the aisles 
of trenches and little boys among the scarlet and 
golden flowers. 

Edmundo proved strange and problematical. He 
seemed to like the glowing blossoms, touching them 
now and then with his fingers; and he seemed to 
enjoy the pretty weather, for he looked often up at 
the brilliant, smooth blue sky; and for three whole 
long days, while he was gentle and polite, and gave 
no trouble, he did no work at all. The thirty little 
boys were very kind, especially Tito and Jose. Jose 
talkatively planted his seeds for him, and Tito kissed 
him very often. Yet Edmundo, when he was not gaz¬ 
ing sadly at the sky, kept looking up the highway, 
all the time. 

On the fourth evening Antonito came to the 
padre, his hands spread out before him and his fore- 


296 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


head crinkled. “I am at a loss, padre. Yesterday 
he was gone for two whole hours, and would not tell 
where he had been.” 

“That he came back,” said the padre, “shows that 
your instinct was right in not following him. In¬ 
dulge him—you remember Tito.” 

“But I ran after him to-day,” said Antonito, “and 
he would not tell me where he was going.” 

“Indulge him,” said the padre again. “He has 
never had indulgence.” 

“You are always right, padre,” said Antonito. 

“But-” He hesitated in the doorway. “There 

is nothing he is willing to speak about!” 

“Indulge him,” said the padre. 

On the doorstep of Amarillis’s little house, and 
with her parasol digging small occasional holes in 
the sunlit dirt, the lady was sitting when she first 
realized that some one was looking at her. 

She was embarrassed, for she had been quite alone 
with her thoughts in the quiet square, and as he 
came nearer and slowly nearer she caught herself 
wondering what one would say to a child if alone 
with it. Then she knew that he was quite close, and 
their meeting eyes found her quite silent. 

Edmundo was trying to speak, and at last he did. 

“You are going to be the Madonna some day.” 

“What—what do you mean?” she stammered. 

He could not answer, and she asked: 

“Why do you say that?” 

“I do not know. Because I think so.” 

He sat down beside her, and she had an uncom¬ 
fortable feeling that she should say something more. 



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They sat looking at the very blue sky, and after a 
long time he said: 

“What is it made of?” 

“What is what made of?” 

“The sky.” 

“Of—of ether, my dear. Of—nothing. That 
lovely colour that we see is only something as to our 
eyes, little boy. Can you understand me a little? 
It is just the air that you feel on your cheek.” 

After a long time Edmundo said: 

“But that could not be so.” 

“Why not?” she asked. 

“Because then God would not have anything to 
stand on.” 

After a long silence she asked, inquisitively: 

“Why do you talk about the sky to me?” 

“Because when I looked at it in the poppy fields 
I thought I saw you. You could stand on it. Not 
now, with your parasol. But in your bronze dress.” 

When, after another long silence, she had not 
answered him, he went away. 

When he came into the square the next afternoon 
some one was already with her. 

It was Carlos, who, in his fine green clothes of 
the city, was standing before the step; and a pang 
went through Edmundo’s heart as he hovered near 
them, because they did not seem to know that he was 
there. 

“I am sorry,” he heard her saying, “that we can¬ 
not agree. And I am sorrier that you are going to 
the city. Without money, you were happy in Te- 
rassa. But without it will you be happy there? 
And I am sorry for two more things—that you will 


298 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


not tell the padre why you go, and that the one 
English word you have learned should be ‘Good-bye.’ 
Why not your own beautiful ‘Adios’ ?” 

“Go you with God,” said Carlos; and he started 
away. 

“Wait!” she cried. “Something has occurred to 
me—that is, that it is difficult for a Spanish gen¬ 
tleman to understand my country and its customs. 
Friend, we do strange things there. We take money, 
or give it, and do other things to it, and it is never 
a matter of manners. Will you not believe that, and 
forgive whatever mistake I have made with you, and 
with a very little of my money go to Madrid?” 

“Go you with God!” said Carlos, and again 
started away. But he came back, his face very red, 
and bowed over her extended hand. 

“I appreciate,” he said. 

Her slow smile crept to the corner of her mouth 
before she answered: 

“Sincerely, it is of no importance. There is such a 
thing as history in this world, my friend, and, though 
you may not know it, greater people than you and 
I have been mortified by the guillotine because of 
differences of opinion. I have money, which hurts 
me. You have paint, which hurts me even more. 
And you will not be generous enough to take some 
of my pain away from me in order to have a little 
less of it yourself.” 

“No,” said Carlos, “I deliberately will not.” And, 
turning his back to her, he walked swiftly off, leav¬ 
ing her quite alone save for a dim impression, like 
that of an echo, that as he turned, his lips were 
saying, “Go you with God!” 

When he had vanished into the Chasm Road, Ed- 


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299 


mundo came up and sat beside her, and with a little 
start she turned her sad face toward him. 

“And to-day, caballero mio , what have you to 
say ?” 

“I-” He hesitated painfully. “I—am going 

to marry you.” 

“What!” 

His eyes pleaded with her. 

“Will you make the favour—oh, si, si !—will you 
make the favour to marry me?” 

“My dear,” she exclaimed, “you do not under¬ 
stand !” 

“I—I was sure you would not,” said Edmundo, 
and began to cry. 

“Dear,” she said, in distress, laying her arm awk¬ 
wardly about his shoulders, “you are too small a 
boy to understand. Tell me—why do you wish to 
marry me?” 

“When they marry them they can do what they 
please to them. Hit them, and make them do what 
you like.” 

“Edmundo!” she cried, snatching her arm away. 

“Oh!” he said, seizing her hand. “Oh, what I 
meant to do was to marry you and admire you, too!” 

At sight of the hot tears that were creeping from 
under her tight-closed lids he began to weep himself 
again. 

“Make me the favour!” he pleaded. 

She opened her eyes. “Oh, my darling,” she cried, 
seizing him and kissing his entire face with many 
kisses, “you do not know what you say, or what 
you mean! My baby, you are the only little man 
who has ever asked to marry me. And you cannot 
understand why you cannot!” 



300 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


“Then you will not?” 

“Oh, my dear, my dear!” she exclaimed, striving 
for words; but she needed no more, for he had turned 
desolately away. 

As he went timidly into the highway dazzled by 
its long, descending width of brilliant yellow, he saw 
two persons walking upward. They seemed familiar, 
and for some reason he did not feel afraid of them— 
perhaps because they were reasonably small—so he 
kept walking on. 

They were Tito and Jose, engaged in earnest con¬ 
versation; and when they spied him they gave each 
other a glad look, and increased their pace, and came 
directly up to him with all their four hands out¬ 
stretched. 

“We are glad to find you,” said Jose, “because 
Antonito is in a state on your account.” 

“Yes,” said Tito, “he is quite unhappy. So are 
you, but he is more important, because he is in 
authority.” 

“Let me do the talking, Tito,” said Jose severely. 
“Edmundo, you are a good boy, which nobody 
doubts, but you are some years younger than I, for 
I am twelve years old, and Antonito is so worried 
about you that he has released me and Tito for 
the whole afternoon so that we could watch your 
actions.” 

“Excuse me, Jose,” said Tito, “but you speak 
the matter too strongly for such a little boy, who 
is even younger than I am. Antonito said to take 
care of him, and made no reproaches at all. Be¬ 
lieve me, Edmundo, for in Terassa everybody is 
fond of everybody else.” 


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301 


“Be silent, Tito!” said Jose. “Edmundo, we be¬ 
lieve that you are in trouble, and though my char¬ 
acter is more harsh and wicked than Tito’s, still I 
am just as kind as he is, without kissing people all 
the time—and, for that matter, without crying, my 
poor little child, which is your own chief fault. We 
can prove by the padre that we are not tattletales, 
so trust me, our friend, and tell me your trouble.” 

“Yes,” exclaimed Tito eagerly, “tell us your trou¬ 
ble, and as both Jose and I have lived in Terassa 
for a great many years we will know better than you 
how you can get over it.” 

Edmundo, gazing through his slow tears at the 
bleared-looking ground, tried to speak, and could 
not; and as Tito softly took one of his hands, Jose 
laid a kind, firm arm upon his shoulder. 

“If you have done a crime,” he said, “you need 
not fear to tell me. Indeed, you will feel better if 
you do.” 

“That is true, I assure you,” said Tito. “I com¬ 
mitted a villainy once myself, and I did not feel 
better till I had confessed.” 

Edmundo began to weep more desperately. “I do 
not think I have committed a crime,” he said. 

“Let us sit on the highway wall,” said Jose, “and 
speak the matter calmly.” 

When they were seated, Jose and Tito holding 
Edmundo lest he grow dizzy at sight of the far pink 
valley, his sobs lessened, and grew finally quiet as 
he relaxed his shoulder against Jose’s, and his hand 
betweep Tito’s fingers. 

“Now,” said Jose, “crime or not, what have you 
done?” 


302 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


“Jose means,” corrected Tito, “what is your 
trouble ?” 

Edmundo’s slowly answering voice was very small: 

“I—was going to marry the American lady. And 
she will not let me.” 

His friends started so violently that he nearly 
fell into the valley, and, clutching him wildly, they 
threw themselves backward, dragging him into the 
road; and the three stood silent, Tito gazing at him 
in wide-eyed wonder, and Jose in half-incredulous 
admiration. 

“Do you tell us that you asked her?” said Jose 
at last. 

“Yes.” 

“Tito,” cried Jose enthusiastically, “who would 
have supposed that this young man had such 
courage?” 

“I myself have often wanted to,” said Tito, “but 
I would not have dared.” 

“I did not mean any crime,” exclaimed Edmundo; 
and slow tears gathered in his eyes again. 

“Come, come!” exclaimed Jose, in tones as portly 
as the padre’s. “We have said we would get you 
over your trouble, and we are honourable. Some¬ 
thing must be done about it. We will sit down, and 
I will think.” 

And they sat down, Jose with his eyes shut, and 
Tito and Edmundo waiting, much embarrassed, hand 
in hand. 

After interminable moments Jose opened his eyes, 
and there was determination in them and upon his 
lips. 

“I have a plan,” he said. 

“What is it, Jose?” breathed Tito fearfully. 


INSTRUMENT*} 


303 


“It is a bold one,” answered Jose; “but his trou¬ 
ble is extreme. It is this: We will seize her, and 
hide her some place, and compel her to marry him.” 

“Dios mio /” cried Tito, terrified. “Santo Dios , 
Jose!” And Edmundo, after a long stare of bewil¬ 
derment, began to wail. 

“We would never dare!” cried Tito. “What would 
the padre do to us? We would all go to the alms¬ 
house !” 

“Come, come!” exclaimed Jose sternly. “Be quiet, 
both of you! Edmundo, we will never help you 
unless you are truthful. Do you love her enough 
to commit a crime? Answer me truthfully!” 

“Y-yes,” said Edmundo, setting his teeth after 
choking down a sob; and Tito turned his eyes from 
Jose to look at him in amazement. 

“Very well. Now, Tito, are you a coward, or 
not ?” 

“You know I am not, Jose!” exclaimed Tito re¬ 
proachfully. “But I confess I am afraid to commit 
outrages. Some brave people are not wicked.” 

“You have not paused for thought,” said Jose 
impatiently. “Will you listen? The padre himself 
says that war is wicked; but have there not been 
religious wars ? And will I find you a bad Christian 
yourself, Tito? You have every reason to know 
that there is confession. I am often too generous 
to remind you of when you stole the marionette, and 
ran away, casting the padre and me, and the whole 
population, into mourning for a week. Yet great 
happiness resulted from your deed—which was the 
purest wickedness, Tito, whereas this outrage is 
done for good ends on purpose. We will confess 
afterward, and they will both be the happier.” 


304 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


“You are more educated than I am, Jose,” said 
Tito, his lip trembling a little. “I confess that, yet 
I distrust the whole matter!” 

Edmundo, who had been thinking deeply, and lis¬ 
tening with some words hesitating on his lips, spoke 
timidly: 

“Sir, I admire you very much. But I am afraid 
she would hate me.” 

“Now,” exclaimed Jose triumphantly, “just there 
is an important point which you are too young to 
understand. She has refused you; but all women, 
even the rich, enj oy getting married, and we all know 
that she is very elderly indeed without having ac¬ 
complished it. On the other hand, they have to be 
very modest and proud at first, especially gentle¬ 
folk. Afterward she will be only too pleased, besides 
admiring you for your bravery. In this even Tito 
will have to bear me out, for we had a case of it 
right here in Terassa. Juanita tricked her husband 
in order to marry him when he did not wish it; yet 
by the time she confessed, after the ceremony, he 
liked her so much that he was as pleased as she 
was.” 

“Yet,” said Tito, his brow furrowed, “even if I 
felt you were right, Jose, I do not see how we could 
do it. Where could we hide her, and would we be 
able to carry her there without her screaming?” 

“We will think of the screaming afterward,” re¬ 
plied Jose. “As to where we shall hide her, it is 
quite simple. Have you forgotten that little stone 
house near the shrine in the chasm ?” 

“It is not a very good house,” said Tito. “It is 
not large enough for her to stand up much, and 
there are spiders in it.” 


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305 


“They do not bite,” said Jose; “and the more un¬ 
comfortable she is, the sooner she will consent. Even 
if they have to go there after the wedding, for cus¬ 
tom’s sake, probably they will be going to live in 
a palace, or America.” 

“But,” said Tito, “they cannot get married with¬ 
out the padre. I seldom dispute you, Jose, but there 
is a point you did not think of.” 

“You make me impatient, Tito!” exclaimed Jose. 
“We will keep her there until she has promised, then 
confess to the padre, and the wedding will take 
place.” 

“Sir,” ventured Edmundo, “I respect you very 
much, but I would rather not marry her than have 
her suffer too much. Sir, she might not consent for 
months, and I have no money to buy food.” 

“We will steal it,” said Jose. “The whole matter 
will not take more than a few days, and we will 
manage somehow.” 

Tito had grown very pale, and there was a catch 
in his voice as he looked, with faltering gaze, at Jose. 

“I will not steal,” he said. “I will do anything 
else not to hurt your feelings, Jose, but I had a bad 
conscience once about stealing, and it was such an 
uncomfortable crime to commit that I am too cow¬ 
ardly to do it any more.” 

“Come, come!” said Jose, putting his arm over 
Tito’s shoulders. “I am not as cruel as you think, 
Tito. I would never ask you to steal, for you have 
told me how you suffered. But if I and Edmundo do 
the stealing, which will be very little—and afterward 
forgiven—will you help telling the lies?” 

“There is a salad in the padre’s pantry,” said 
Edmundo. 


306 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


“There!” cried Jose. “You, Edmundo, are sen¬ 
sible as well as brave! Is it a whole fresh salad, all 
laid out ready to be made?” 

“Yes,” said Edmundo. 

His tears were gone; but not very far, for they 
were standing in Tito’s eyes; and Tito, in a confu¬ 
sion of thoughts, was striving for words that would 
not form themselves. 

“But—Jose—to cut up a salad we would have to 
have a knife, and we have promised—we—we are not 
allowed to play with knives, Jose.” 

“/ know where there is a knife,” said Edmundo. 

“We will march on her to-morrow,” said Jose. 

In the slow, bright hours of the next afternoon, 
the padre sought out Antonito, calling him from the 
fields into the highway. 

“Where is Edmundo ?” he asked. 

“I do not know, padre. I indulge him, as you in¬ 
structed. “But-” He hesitated. “I am sure 

his character is pretty. But, trying to catch him 
yesterday, I dropped my knife, and he would not 
tell me where it fell. He is sweet and good, padre, 
and I am sure he did not want the knife, but I know 
that he knew where it fell.” 

“Antonito,” said the padre, his eyes deeply dis¬ 
turbed, “I must confess to you now what I have kept 
from Terassa, even you. Edmundo, Antonito, is 

the son of a bullfighter, and a famous one. I-1 

do not like this matter of a knife!” 

“I-1 will not tell of it, padre,” said Antonito, 

understandingly. “But I have been so worried that 
I took it on myself to have Tito and Jose follow 
him about. I chose them because they had shown 





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special kindness for him. They were with him yes¬ 
terday, and, while their reports are vague, they say 
he is a good boy, and truthful and brave.” 

“In the circumstances, I am not fond of the word 
‘brave,’ ” said the padre. “Antonito, would he be 
brave enough to steal?” 

“Never!” exclaimed Antonito warmly. “I have 
not overseen thirty little boys without knowing 
that.” 

“You comfort me,” replied the padre, “for I have 
been very puzzled. While I was making my visits 
this morning my salad disappeared. At least, I 
think so. I have lately been absent of mind, but 
surely I did not, in a moment of abstraction, eat a 
whole salad! I am certain I would have been sick 
afterward.” 

Antonito’s brow had become as furrowed as the 
padre’s. 

“It—it is strange,” he hesitated. “Padre, there 
is something mysterious abroad, for a thing hap¬ 
pened in my own house this morning. While Vio¬ 
let a was at the market a chair vanished from the 
house. It would not have been a theft, for this 
chair had only three legs, and was quite useless. We 
had kept it only because it was a wedding tribute, 
and because we felt sorry for its broken leg.” 

“I think,” said the padre, “that I will ask Rosa’s 
advice. I am strangely troubled. She is very clever 
sometimes.” And as Antonito returned to the little 
boys he walked across the highway to old Rosa’s 
house. 

“Rosa,” he said, “I need your counsel.” 

She was engaged in dressing herself before her mir- 


308 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


ror, and turned to him with an ancient Manila shawl 
half drawn about her shoulders. 

“And I need yours,” she said sharply. “I was 
preparing this fashionable costume in order to visit 
you, as you have been neglecting me for a week. I 
am proud enough, but my news is so terrifying that 
I had put away my pride and was going to you. Let 
me tell you, the devil is again in Terassa! I had 
an accidental nap this morning. Now that I am 
almost sixty-nine years old, I will not stop to apolo¬ 
gize for that.” 

“You are seventy-four,” said the padre testily. 
“Come to the point.” 

“I swear to you, I am seventy-two!” cried Rosa 
angrily. “But abuse me as you will, the fact remains 
that while I was so wickedly asleep some one was in 
my house.” 

“And stole something?” demanded the padre. 

“No,” snapped Rosa, “not something, but three 
things—a blanket, a kettle of hot milk, and a 
bolster!” 

“I am troubled—I am troubled!” exclaimed the 
padre. “Rosa, my own house and another have been 
robbed to-day, and I came to you in the hope of 
wise advice.” 

“Let me remind you at once,” cried Rosa, “that 
my conclusions are almost always right, as you often 
admit, and I am certain that this wickedness will 
lead back to that American woman! You need not 
give a gesture of disgust, for the rich should always 
be suspected, and I tell you I had a feeling the day 
she came here, in all those haughty clothes, that we 
would meet some tragedy in them before she left.” 

“Come, come!” protested the padre. “Your own 


INSTRUMENT*} 


309 


clothes are not so very meek. Come, let us sit quietly 
down on your doorstep, according to our old cus¬ 
tom, and talk over the matter.” 

The lady thought that there was something 
strange about them as they came into the square. 
She had hoped that Edmundo might visit her again, 
but she had not expected the approach of three little 
boys. They were arm in arm, like friends, and 
seemed to be progressing in a general way across the 
square; yet they made little headway, and their black 
shadows jerked sharply ahead of them as if one were 
retarding another. 

She recognized Edmundo from his diminutive sta¬ 
ture, and then Tito from his tight velvet trousers, 
and then Jose from his very loud voice, with which 
he was shouting, “Come, come!” 

She had heard the sad story of Amarillis and her 
downfall at the fonda, and she was seized by the 
peculiar thought that the proprietor might be still 
so wicked that he had sold foreign liquor to the little 
boys. 

When they arrived directly before her, as pale and 
swaying as a statue in a distorted mirror, she rose in 
positive alarm. “What is it, children? What is the 
matter with you ? What is it ?” 

In the silence that followed, Tito’s eyes—and Ed- 
mundo’s—were darting sidewise at Jose, whose face 
was growing whiter and whiter. 

“You—have—got to come!” he gasped. 

“Come where? What do you mean? You frighten 
me!” 

“I told you she would be frightened at once,” cried 
Jose to Tito. “You—you have got to consent. You 


310 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


have got to come to a house where there is a salad. 
The salad proves that we are going to be kind, but 
you have got to stay there till you have consented!” 

“And we are not doing wrong!” shouted Tito. 
“Because as soon as you have consented we are 
going to confess!” 

“And if you scream,” Jose stammered, “you will 
frighten the town, which the padre would not like!” 

“And,” sobbed Edmundo, “these gentlemen prom¬ 
ise me that you will be very, very happy afterward.” 

Suddenly her fright had changed to laughter; yet 
as she sank down on the step there were tears in her 
eyes. 

“Children, children,” she managed to say, “how 
dear you are! What dear little boys! But you are 
little boys, and you must believe me when I say that 
I cannot marry Edmundo. Truly the padre himself 
would never consent. I love all of you—all three of 
you. And I will not scream. But still, my dears, 
even if I let you take me to the house, the padre 
would never consent.” 

“It has failed, Jose!” cried Tito. “I knew in the 
beginning that it would fail. And we have to con¬ 
fess anyway!” He was dragging desperately at 
Jose’s hand. “You promised me we would confess, 
Jose. Come, let us do so at once!” 

As they ran frantically off, Edmundo tried to fol¬ 
low ; but she caught him back to her and folded him 
in her arms. 

“Stay with me!” she pleaded. “Can you not un¬ 
derstand, darling, that I can love you without marry¬ 
ing you?” 

He slipped away from her arms, and his head 
drooped. 


INSTRUMENTO 


311 


“Do you—love somebody else?” 

She did not answer, and he raised his eyes to hers 
with a gaze that forbade her to be silent any longer. 

“Oh, why will you question me? Yes, yes, my 
darling! I confess it!” 

Again his head bent downward, and his breathing 
quivered, and then the misery of his face once more 
faced hers. 

“Is it—that one?” And he pointed down into the 
chasm. 

“Darling, darling, why will you question me? Yes, 
yes, I say it! It is!” And now her own head bent 
all the way down into her shaking hands. When her 
quiet sobbing was over, and she had courage enough 
to look up with, he was not there. 

Carlos was sitting very despondently before one 
of the pictures in his rough white house when he 
heard the noise that came from his door hurling in 
against the wall, and the lesser sounds of short- 
drawn breath and set feet. 

“What is the matter?” he demanded, gazing in 
astonishment at the little, drawn figure. “Can you 
not knock?” 

“I can strike!” cried Edmundo, and with the be¬ 
wildering lightning-art of a matador in miniature, 
he had sprung at him, swarmed up his body, struck 
downward, with a silverly-flashing instrument, into 
his neck. 

Carlos seized his wrists, and twisted them until 
the knife fell away. 

“You wicked little boy! Why did you strike me?” 

Edmundo was weeping in his terror, yet his eyes 
stayed defiant. 


312 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


“Because she wants to marry you!” 

“Explain yourself,” cried Carlos tensely, twisting 
his wrists again. 

“The American lady wants to marry you instead 
of me! She will not marry me because she loves you. 
Let me go ! She said so ! Let me go!” 

“You are a wicked boy,” cried Carlos, clutching 
the wrists tighter, “for you are a liar as well as a 
murderer! Tell me the truth. Say it again, or I 
will break your wicked little hands off!” 

“I swear it! Ask her! Let me go!” screamed Ed- 
mundo. 

Dropping the parched wrists, Carlos seized the 
whole child into his arms, pressing the head down 
against his bloody neck, and tore madly with him 
forth from the house. 

Frightened, the American lady stood up as he 
stumbled into her diminutive room, swaying, with 
Edmundo’s weight clasped under the red colour of 
his collar. 

“Is it true?” 

“Which of you is hurt?” she cried. 

“He is not hurt.” And as he said so, he let Ed- 
mundo slip from his arms to the floor. “Is it true?” 

“Is what true?” 

“Is it true? He told me so! Is it true?” 

“I believe,” she said, her hands trembling upward 
as she swayed, like him, unsteadily, “that you would 
not take my money because- Who hurt you?” 

“Edmundo. He hit me with a knife because he 
thought—he said you—” 

She caught his arms, steadying him enough for 
him to lean against the bed. “What are you trying 
to say?” 



INSTRUMENTO 


313 


“I—do not know. Something about—a picture— 
a picture that I see painted against the blue sky, and 
that I want to own, and cannot own! Yes!” he 
cried, his free hand darting to the blood at his 
throat. “I remember now what it is a picture of!” 

As she propped him into the white linen of Amaril- 
lis’s pillows, she heard the low moaning of Edmundo, 
who lay weeping in the corner. 

“Darling,” she cried, lifting him up, “are you 
still unhappy ?’ 

“I only wanted to live with you in your little 
house!” he sobbed. 

Turning toward Carlos, she placed her hand 
slowly upon his neck. “May—may he live with us 
in a little house?” 

The great eyes of Carlos opened and looked up 
into her face; but though she saw his lips move, she 
did not hear his answer, for Rosa had run into the 
room, the padre panting behind her. 

“What has happened?” cried Rosa. “Oh, tell us 
at once, for the little boys are crying too much to 
tell!” And as her swift glance saw Carlos she laid 
beseeching, quivering hands upon the American 
woman. “Oh, lady, lady, you are above my station, 
and I respect you, but the padre must not be fright¬ 
ened any more! Tell us instantly!” 

The trembling Ursula relaxed one of her hands 
between Rosa’s, and reached the other pleadingly 
toward Padre Pedro. 

“I will satisfy you both. I think you were right, 
padre—I think that the child has been an instru¬ 
ment. But for one moment do not question me. I 
must know something.” And she bent over Carlos, 
pressing her fingers again upon his wound. “Carlos, 


314 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


did you hear my question? Carlos, Carlos, shall he 
live with us in a little house ?” 

The great eyes were still watching her face. 

“I have no money,” he said. 

“Dear,” she answered softly, “your neck is hurt. 
Do not cut mine.” 

The great eyes were still searching hers. 

“You are the Madonna,” said Carlos. 


X 


THE FIGHTING IRIS 

T a narrow city right angle, the dead joining 



of two small streets in an old quarter, stood 
an elderly priest. Behind him stood a carriage, 
whose driver had sunk into slumber before the 
priest’s foot had touched the sidewalk. Padre Pedro 
had stretched his small purse around the vehicle as a 
holiday end to his business in the city, and had halt¬ 
ed in this bypath of decayed splendours to muse on 
the warm pleasure of the morning sunshine and its 
mellow lighting of an ancient tenement that formed 
one side of the architectural canon—long since a 
citadel of state affairs, now corroded into a tobacco 
shop at its yonder corner, and here beside him into a 
dusky lodging. 

To the priest, the tall old houses were a picture 
set to music, for the big harmony of flowing human 
life came distilled to his ears from the near-by 
Ramblas, while from before the tobacco shop, 
through the still air, tinkled the high voices of some 
little boys, disputing whether a young man inside 
was the bullfighter, Lirio, the most popular mur¬ 
derer and the handsomest man in Spain. 

“It is Lirio, I tell you!” 

“Let me tell you it is not! Look you at his hat!” 

“He does not need the hat! It is Lirio!” 

The gentle old priest abhorred bullfights, but he 


315 


316 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


was not, because of this distaste, the less interested 
in those who performed their horrors, and he looked 
with keen curiosity upon the fine fellow who had now 
issued from the shop. He was giving no apparent 
heed to the little boys, and when, the padre thought 
resentfully, it would have been so easy to speak to 
them and please them, he stood quite still, great 
wreaths of smoke curling from his red, chiselled lips 
and thin, brown, outheld fingers—as clear-cut as a 
statue, and as motionless. There was no doubting 
that it was Lirio. If there was a handsomer crea¬ 
ture anywhere, thought the priest, he was beyond 
Spain certainly, and beyond this world most likely. 

Life and the padre were familiar friends; neither 
was a slave to the other. But the priest had the 
whip hand as a rule, because he kept a ready smile 
and prompt wits for such surprises as his terrifying 
comrade chose to bring home to him. Yet every 
morning he greeted life trustingly, and he now looked 
with no suspicion on the famous bullfighter’s cross¬ 
ing of his vision. He was interested, and nothing 
more. 

“Come!” he exclaimed inwardly. “As you are the 
fighter, why not tell them so, instead of preening in 
their childish wonder? It is nothing to boast of, as 
your posture does! My Father, shall I take down 
this fine young man, or shall I not meddle in so small 
a business?” 

His eyes had lifted with this impulsive prayer, 
and when they fell, it was answered very strangely, 
for they came upon a thing directly in front of him, 
a thing so still and so like the sad colour of the 
tenement that he had not noticed it before, but that 
now drove from his thoughts the bullfighter and the 


THE FIGHTING IRIS 317 

little boys and the whirring music of the big city, 
in one sweeping shock of pity at the sight. 

It was a woman, sitting on a doorstep. 

This in itself was little to the priest, for misery 
displays itself often enough in Spanish sunlight, 
and his own doorstep, at home in his little hilltown of 
Terassa, was famous for the deposits of sin and 
poverty upon it. But no drugged child abandoned 
in a bundle, no mendicant outstripping Lazarus in 
sores and ruin, had ever so sunk his heart at home or 
thrilled it in the city. 

Her sum was rags and rags and angles in common 
with the street, not with humanity, and, above these, 
a look, which was all that the horrified priest could 
call her face as his dazed mind sought about for a 
word. He could not see the face itself, so completely 
covered were its lines with dirt, from which her enor¬ 
mous eyes shone out like puddles from drying mud. 
She did not even seem to be looking at him. The 
great eyes were directed toward him, and his pitiful 
blue ones gazed straight into them; but what fierce 
book of sorrow his presence formed, and what she 
was reading printed on his face, were matters not of 
the step she sat upon, or of the street it led from, 
or of the whole bright yellow city of Barcelona. 
They were things that her tortured soul would have 
found as readily at sea, or in a circus or a charnel 
house. With a shiver worse than her taut-skinned 
bones had given him, he knew that to those eyes God 
did not matter. They stared upon a wealth of some¬ 
thing imagined, and this was the only riches in or 
about her. She did not even have a wealth of rags. 
There were enough to cover her, but they covered 
her tightly, except her filthy skirt, which ballooned 


318 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


enough to ridicule her thinness. And her one other 
plenitude—a long, heavy twist of shining, coal- 
black hair—dangled ironically down amid her sug¬ 
gestion of sharp bones, and was tied tight and robbed 
of all sense of luxuriance by an economical piece of 
dirty string. 

She seemed as if she had never once been clean— 
or even partly clean; and yet he pictured a delicacy 
beneath the grime, both in the assumed features of 
that horrible look, and in the hands within the 
gloves of dirt that lay on her planted knees. And 
in imagining this, the priest realized what had 
stabbed him worst of all, from his first instant of 
gaze upon the nightmare—that this battered thing, 
clean necessarily when God had made her, and since 
dragged down the list of epithets from sloven to slut 
and on to wench and witch and draggletail, poverty- 
stricken, worn, unfed, coated with untold, inexpli¬ 
cable trouble, homeless and obviously driven from 
street to street and door to door until she had sunk 
down stagnant with despair, was shockingly and 
wonderfully young. However great, between nature 
and such abominable disaster, the obstacles of in¬ 
stinct and strength and simple decency, it had taken 
life no more than nineteen years to do it. 

From the woman, and their pitying light of heart¬ 
ache, the priestly eyes turned to the debonair fighter, 
and a gleam of impetuous contempt at his conscious 
grace and studied negligence. And the figure now 
sauntering toward him deserved more and more the 
gaze of conjoined admiration and impatience that 
he cast upon its compelling features—the fine pal¬ 
lor of the olive skin, the exact precision of lips and 
nostrils and cheeks that would have made a woman 


THE FIGHTING IRIS 


319 


exquisite, the straightness and slender virility of 
limb and body, and the beautiful suavity of their 
wafting gait. 

This, thought the priest, was a symbolic vision. 
As the fighter neared the woman, the two poignant 
figures were as startling in their contrast as the 
heaven and hell of his simple faith. The physical 
resplendence of the young man seemed as vivid as 
that of an angel against the dusk of her rags; while 
in the light of his person, the poor mass of female 
degradation pictured, with her few significant, 
smudged lines, all that was hopelessly lost and low 
and wayward. 

And the priest’s mind, awed by the spectacle, was 
the more struck at realizing that in the gorgeous 
specimen of God’s architecture no spiritual nobility 
sat enthroned. The fellow’s handsome eyes would 
never have seen the gazing gutter woman had the 
priest’s not led them to her. When they did, and he 
slackened his pace near by her, it was without any 
lessening of the graceful strut; and indignation over¬ 
swept the padre as he saw him eat up her adulation, 
feeding his vanity on her feeding eyes. 

Quite conscious that the priest would see the act, 
he had thrust his fingers into his waistcoat pocket, 
and he now tossed a coin down to the wretch, with a 
gesture pretty enough to grace his punta in a kill¬ 
ing. It struck her lap and rolled across the cobbles. 

But the woman did not clutch at it, nor did she 
thank him, nor fall forward on her knees to fawn 
upon him. The priest saw a flame leap into her 
cavernous eyes, and then, as if it had lit the whole 
bundle of rags from head to foot, she rose as a 
tongue of fire leaps up from tinder, her thin person 


320 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


leaning toward him as if a gust of wind had bent 
her over. And as the priest’s heart leaped with hor¬ 
ror, she took one step forward and spat in the 
young man’s face. 

If passionate hate could kill, her eyes would have 
struck him dead, and his, as he breathlessly stared 
back at her, would so have stricken her. They blazed 
from a face as white as purest marble, and he stood 
as if turned to a statue now in earnest, waiting for 
breath to quicken him to revenge, helpless for the 
moment, in his pathetic tragedy of amazement, to 
spring and satisfy his lust for her punishment. 

Life, sudden, raw, and primitive, was at its old 
tricks again, and Padre Pedro knew it. With prayer 
in his heart and lightning in his legs, he bounded be¬ 
tween the petrified angel of vengeance and his trem¬ 
bling prey, swept her into his arms, rushed again to 
the corner, and leaped into the carriage with a 
jolt that wakened the driver and frightened him and 
the horse into concerted action. 

“Tibidabo, man,” cried the padre, “as if the devil 
were after you! As, indeed, he will be in one second 
more!” And having cast a swift glance backward at 
the raging matador, he sat forward on the seat, 
with one hand upon the shivering human refuse at his 
side and the other urgently at the driver’s elbow, 
as the vehicle careened out of the maze of old streets 
and reeled into the Gracious Paseo. 

The glittering house fronts of mosaicked tiles 
flashed by them in a stream of colours like a wild 
mist shot with sun and rainbows. As the high watch- 
tower of Tibidabo seemed to rush down into the city 
toward them, the priest cried, “Buonanova!”—a 


THE FIGHTING IRIS 


321 


suburb distantly parallel to them. They swerved to¬ 
ward it. They were there. 

“Stop!” cried the priest. He threw the driver a 
fee, and waited on the sunny sidewalk with the 
woman in his arms until the inquisitive man drove 
reluctantly away. Then he hastened with her into a 
low building that stood near by. 

It had been with an old-fashioned sigh that he 
had patronized, as a repository for his country mule 
and cart, so modern a contrivance as a garage, but 
he now thanked God for its isolated district and con¬ 
venience to the mountain road. 

“You need not lie about me and my companion,” 
he said to the gaping mechanics, “but you need not 
tell the truth, either!” 

And with the woman in a heap beside him, he per¬ 
suaded the startled donkey out of the garage and 
rattled forth from the city. 

They had swept beyond Tibidabo’s watchtower 
and well into the road to the foothills before the 
priest, like a thief in his first moment of safety, 
turned to examine the doubtful prize he had snatched 
from the dregs of city society. Pity again surged 
over him at the discernible youth exuding myste¬ 
riously from this wreck of femininity. Her wrist 
was bumping to and fro on the wheel, bruised and 
beginning to show blood. Silently he reached over 
and lifted the pathetic thing into her lap, as if she 
were indeed but a bundle of inanimate articles, and 
this one of them that had spilled out. From the 
priest’s intimacy with human hearts, he had sup¬ 
posed that the quiet action would explode the smoul¬ 
dering mass of rags into fiery speech. But it did 


322 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


not, so he spoke abruptly, seeking to kindle her and 
then provoke her tears to quench the flame, yet with 
a depth of impulsive sincerity in his words. 

“How could you so, my girl? It was a ghastly 
act, and a ghastly sight. You risked your life to 
the monster you purposely roused in him. If God 
in His pre-vision had not sent me to the corner, that 
young man might have repented of your murder, 
but first he would certainly have committed it. To 
arouse such hatred, he must have bitterly wronged 
you. What had he done?” 

The woman shivered in the sunlight. 

“He had done nothing,” she said. “He had never 
seen me in his life before.” 

“In God’s name, then,” stammered the amazed 
priest, “why did you do it?” 

The explosion came. The rags and rope of hair 
swirled round her as she turned upon him. 

“Why did I spit at him? Do you, a priest, know 
nothing at all of life? Would I, the broken hack 
horse that you see, have defiled his damned beauty if 
I had not loved, loved, loved him? Why do you 
stare? You fool, what other reason could there be? 
You, a confessor, should know that such hate could 
come only from a torrent of worship, of raging 
starvation and thirst and pain and hell’s own crav¬ 
ing ! Then do you still stare, and will you ask again 
why I spat at the famous Lirio, the idolized pet of 
Spain, the White Iris of the bull ring? I spat at him 
because I loved him, loved him, loved him!” 

As he gazed at her, he found strange colours in his 
jewel of the gutter. He felt a queer purity in her, a 
quality that seemed to mean an abstinence rather 
than a virtue. And through her thinness and dirti- 


THE FIGHTING IRIS 


323 


ness, shone out one unsoilable beauty—that of her 
eyes, which were crystal clear and full of deep, con¬ 
fusing lights that summed to a total of dark blue in¬ 
stead of the black he had supposed they were. What 
a beautiful girl baby she must have been—thrilling, 
ecstatic to any mother who had in her anything to 
thrill, anything that would have decently watched 
against her dizzy fall! But these matters were swift 
flashes through his mind, and his answering words 
stammered simply: 

“Poor girl, such love as that is simple madness!” 

“Do I not know that better than you?” she cried. 
“You happy sexless thing, how can you know that 
you are riding with the dead—with a soul that has 
left the world for her lover’s sake and dug a garden 
on the moon for him? For let me tell you there are 
such things as moonflowers, and I will snatch those 
reins out of your hands and drive you straight to 
hell if you deny it!” 

“Why not straight to the moon, to stop my argu¬ 
ment—if I argued?” said the padre. 

After their momentary flutter in the heat of her 
passion, the rags subsided into limp stillness. 
Lethargy absorbed her like a sponge, and long hours 
and a thousand hills rolled by them. Full of length¬ 
ening shadows, a great yellow stretch of plain came 
into view. Distantly before them rose a sharp cone 
of green and fertile land, like a young mountain 
against the white and purple Pyrenees. 

“You see, I have driven you nearer the moon than 
hell,” said the priest. “Yonder is Terassa.” 

The little town clustering on top of the green 
mound shone with old colours, as if the houses had 


324 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


been rich fabrics, and the windowpanes glittered like 
live coals in the setting sunlight. 

“Love of a sane sort waits for you there, my 
girl. And work, and self-respect—even happiness, 
if you will hunt for it!” 

They had reached the foot of the verdant hill, 
whence the highway climbed steeply upward to the 
town. At one side of them wide, cultivated fields of 
luxuriant poppies glowed red and yellow in the 
dying light. On the other stood a small house, and 
as the cart jolted to a stop before the door, old Rosa, 
the padre’s favourite townswoman, ran out to greet 
him. 

“Well, well!” she began, but her mouth dropped 
open at the burden he lifted from the cart and car¬ 
ried past her. Promptly and silently she followed 
them in, and, with hands on hips, stood looking from 
the exhausted priest to the unsightly woman. 

“I had a puppy once,” said Rosa grimly, “who 
brought things home to me very much as you do!” 

“I know you will be kind to her, Rosa,” said the 
padre, “and do everything needful. Wine— 
food-” 

“Clothes, I suppose,” said Rosa, “of two varieties 
—off—on, while between the two-” 

As he stepped from the house, he glanced instinc¬ 
tively back at the thing he had left there, and the 
great crystal eyes looked up at him from the dingy 
heap that she formed upon the floor. 

“Thanks ! Thanks !” she muttered. 

When he had climbed to his dwelling at the far 
side of the town and eaten supper wearily in his 
kitchen, he lit the tall candles in his small living 



THE FIGHTING IRIS 


325 


room, brought wine from the cupboard, and then, 
with a sweep of his arm, closed out the kitchen door¬ 
way with a pair of ancient French tapestry curtains 
of blue and silver. It was with an impulse to warm 
the room with colour and to shut away, for a time, 
the whole adventure from his mood and thoughts. 
But as he turned to sink gratefully into his deep 
armchair, a stream of pale radiance shot from the 
hillside straight across his floor, and he stood with 
one hand on the heavy hangings, the other uplifted, 
with the wineglass in it. 

Framed by the opposite doorway and bathed in 
the early moonlight that had flooded the road, 
motionless save for the tense rise and fall of the 
muscular chest upon which his arms were folded, 
stood the bullfighter. He was still in his civilian’s 
clothes of the morning, but from his erect shoulders 
hung a matador’s gaudy cape of green and gold, 
lined with white satin, with which he had blazoned 
his identity through his journey. Paler than the 
moonlight, his virile beauty completely sinister, he 
gazed silently into the priest’s face with eyes that 
looked as if the devil had set two of his own favourite 
fires behind them. 

“Good evening,” said the padre. 

The white face flushed with anger, and the threat¬ 
ening figure took a step into the room. 

“Do not trifle with me, priest!’ cried Lirio. “I 
have tracked you two, and though I respect religion 
as a rule, I will have no black robe from an unheard- 
of little town come between me and the chastisement 
that hag deserves! So where have you hidden her? 
I am going to have her, and you will spare time by 
giving her to me now!” 


326 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


“And what,” asked the padre, “when you have so 
ignobled me that I have handed her over to you, do 
you intend to do with her ?” 

“I intend,” said Lirio, promptly and between set, 
gleaming teeth, “to drag her by the hair from here 
to the city, turn her over to the civil guard, and 
put her in jail. It is absurd but true—and the 
whole public will hunger for my story—that a nasty 
guttersnipe spoiled the fight to-day! So shaken 
was I that I gave it up, and Cocherito, from Bil¬ 
bao, whom I hate as only the devil hates holy water, 
came in and took my place and my money and my 
glory. Thank God and all the saints, he is bald- 
headed, or I would kill myself!” 

“Speaking of baldness,” said the padre, sitting 
down, “the poor woman would never withstand that 
kind of journey, and I would appear against you 
at your trial for murder. On the other hand, I am 
the only witness of what she did, and if you succeeded 
in arresting her, though I am a priest, I fear I 
should lie to save her. Now, you speak as if you 
were some one of importance, so will you not honour 
me by telling me who you are?” 

“You know perfectly well who I am!” cried Lirio. 
“And so did that wretch when she insulted me! I 
am Lirio, and you know it! My picture is in the 
papers and all the shops, and I am famous aside 
from my prowess in the arena, because I am the 
handsomest man in Spain!” 

“I do not think so,” said the padre. 

“You do think so!” shouted Lirio. “I see you 
are a liar! How do you dare deny it? You can 
see my face, and, although I am a Spaniard, my 
skin all over is as white as milk! I will prove it to 


THE FIGHTING IRIS 


327 


you!” And with trembling fingers he pulled back 
his sleeve. 

“You need not trouble,” said the padre. “There 
is milk in my pantry that I could look at for hours 
if I admired the colour.” 

A childlike rage sprang into the fighter’s eyes. 

“You are making fun of me!” he cried. “No one 
ever made fun of me before!” And as he sank, 
quivering with pitiable confusion, onto a chair, the 
priest rose and stood looking sternly down at him. 

“Young man,” he said, “put by your injured 
feelings for a moment and tell me this: In your whole 
life of vanity and bloodshed, of the public esteem 
you prate of, have you not learned one manliness 
of heart, not had one reverential thought of women ?” 

“Women?” The fighter’s crisp word was col¬ 
lective, contemptuous. “They are bottles of wine— 
brunettes are Amontillado, blondes are Jerez. It is 
the only difference. We use them and throw them 
away.” 

“I am sorry for them, and sorrier for you,” said 
the padre. 

“ Sorry—for me?” cried Lirio, springing up. 
“Stop your nonsense, priest, and give that creature 
to me! And if you and I should ever cross paths 
again, take care you respect me!” 

“Respect you?” cried Padre Pedro, hurling out 
the words with such passion that the fighter sank 
breathlessly upon his chair. “You vanity-sodden 
thing, with no more feeling in your honeycombed 
soul for a poor, degraded girl than for the bulls 
that you feed and thrive and grow horrible upon, 
do you know why that woman insulted you to-day?” 


328 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


“I do not know,” gasped Lirio furiously, “but 
I intend to find out before she is flung into jail!” 

“You shall find out now!” cried the padre. “It 
was because, as your arrogance strutted itself hollow 
and naked before the eyes God gave her, they saw 
you for what you were, and just as I pity you from 
the bottom of my heart, from the innermost core of 
hers she utterly despised you!” 

The same helpless astonishment of the morning 
was in Lirio’s face, and he stared at the priest and 
around the room like a bull in its first dazed mo¬ 
ment of noise and sunlight in the ring. 

“Before you decide cruelly to punish a misguided 
woman,” continued the priest, “consider what you 
are yourself. God gave you noble looks, but what 
have you done with them? Only revelled in them— 
and at the cost of unfortunates. And you are a 
great artist in the arena to what end? To the end 
of a goaded, tortured animal’s life. Can you always 
rejoice in your agility and dexterity? As you look 
down the silver length of your sword for the kill¬ 
ing, into the terrible pathos of the creature’s 
gaze-” 

“And how much better are you,” broke in Lirio 
suddenly, “with your sneers upon me and my inno¬ 
cent good looks? You use your smart, educated 
words as I do my sword, to hurt my feelings every 
way you can! How much better are you?” 

“I do not do it for my living,” said the priest, 
“but to save a poor woman from jail. Through 
your vanity, you have tasted life to-day. We are 
all the creatures of a good, but a terrible, God. 
Then give up your revenge and peaceably leave my 



THE FIGHTING IRIS 


329 


town, or beware lest life turn one day and bait you 
as you have thonged and goaded bulls!” 

“You shall not frighten me!” cried Lirio, trem¬ 
bling. “If you force me from town, I will send the 
police here after her. I have never feared life at all 
until to-day, and however much you have mortified 
me, I still know well enough that I am the hand¬ 
somest man in Spain, and that the whole nation 
adores me.” 

“Think a little,” said the padre gravely. “The 
public gives you a foolish adulation, but I doubt if 
there is a less loved man on earth. Through that 
thick crust of pride that you live incased in, what 
heart has ever reached out and made its way? Cast 
about in your mind and be truthful with yourself. 
Does any one love you?” 

Lirio stared at him in bewildered thought. 

“I imagine there is only one person on earth who 
does,” said the padre. 

“Stop knifing me!” shouted Lirio. “You have 
said enough! You are going to slash at me now 
about God, or your priestly self!” 

“I did not mean either one,” said Padre Pedro. 
“I told you just now that the woman despised you, 
but I did not tell you what had gone before. If so 
terrible a passion can be sacred, hers is sacred to 
me, but the telling may lift your brutal threat from 
her. Man, it is not Spain, but that poor thing of 
rags and squalor, that adores you!” 

As he sat, trembling and still staring at the priest, 
a slow-surging tide of colour, whether from shame 
or rage or both, crept up Lirio’s face. 

“I have told you for her sake,” said the padre 
quietly. “Now will you not in sheer decency go 


330 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


away? And reflect as you go on that irony of life 
I warned you of. Of the whole crowded world, my 
fine fighter of bulls, that poor creature is the only 
one who loves you.” 

“She is not a poor creature!” cried a strange, 
ringing voice, and from behind the blue-and-silver 
curtains stepped a woman’s figure. 

Tall, imperious, exquisite in pure whiteness of 
face through which two spots of burning red crept 
up to paint the delicate cheeks, she stood like a 
Castilian noblewoman in a painting. Her wealth 
of hair was dressed high, its dark waves melting into 
the shadows of a great cream-coloured lace mantilla 
that rippled over her gleaming shoulders and down 
the lines of her stiff* old-fashioned gown of yellow 
satin, and was held from touching the floor by the 
white arms that she had flung back against the rich 
blue curtains, which slightly trembled behind her so 
that the soft candle flames picked out particular sil¬ 
ver threads and glinted on them as if the slender 
hands and upthrown head were adorned with gems. 

Lirio sat rigid with wonder on his chair, as Padre 
Pedro rose, gasping, to his feet. 

By nothing unless by the big crystal eyes, whose 
gaze went daringly from the fighter to the priest, 
could the two dazed men recognize the apparition, 
but those eyes had printed themselves on the fight¬ 
er’s soul as she had glared at him that morning, and 
the priest had looked deeply into them as he had 
trundled her home in his cart. 

“Yes!” she cried, the eyes fastening on the padre 
and her voice ringing out vibrant and clear again. 
“I am the filthy thing you scraped out of the street 
to-day! Do you remember the words you spoke to 


THE FIGHTING IRIS 


331 


me in the cart? Love of a decent sort—work—self- 
respect! They have grown as radiant inside of me 
as these garments the old woman hung on the out¬ 
side when she had cleansed it! I shall hunt for hap¬ 
piness as you told me to! I intend to work in the 
vineyards with my hands! I intend to dig health 
and sanity out of the soil!” 

“Good woman!” breathed the priest. But sud¬ 
denly and fiercely Lirio turned to him. 

“You two are devils! You have dressed her up 
in this finery to astonish me, and hidden her there 
to mortify me in her hearing!” 

“He left me,” flared the woman, “a mass of dirty 
rags at the foot of the hill! But I have come back 
from the dead since he left me there! I ran up here 
to tell him so, and I heard your voice and hid from 
you in his kitchen. And I am glad that I hid there, 
for I heard the truth as I saw the truth this morn¬ 
ing !” 

She had leaned forward and gazed straight into 
his face, all her white, hectic beauty as close to him 
as the gutter fury had been in the city street, and a 
new excitement that had been growing in his eyes 
leaped into full glitter as he turned again to the 
padre. 

“Then, priest, if you did not do this, all your 
smart speech thrusts back at yourself! You have tor¬ 
mented me with the thought that no one loved me! 
You exulted in taunting me that only a street drab 
did! So look, you priest who despised me, and see 
who loves me—as peerless a woman as I am a man!” 
His triumphant eyes swept to her with his pointing 
hand. “Remember, girl, you heard your own se- 


332 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


crets told as loudly as mine! Well, I will let you 
love me all you like!” 

With a cry of disgust, she stepped back against 
the curtains. 

“You fool!" Her voice shook in its pure tones 
like the silver threads behind her. “Every word that 
the priest has said to you of life is as true as your 
sword and as sure to plunge straight home! What 
have you ever had to do with my love of you? I 
have loved you for years without your bidding me! 
God, God, how the word ‘love’ sounded on your lips! 
Take all you ever felt, and multiply it by the stars 
in the sky, and it will not equal a woman’s love for 
a man if she lets herself love as she wants to. 

“Since I first saw your face, three years ago, I 
have gone down, down, down from a home to the gut¬ 
ter, from work to idleness, from beggary to filth, 
that I might sit in your path while I ate my heart 
and made poems in my head. To the tune of your 
thrust at the bull with the thonged sticks, I have 
found a set of words; to the thud of your footfalls 
going down the street, I have had a matching phrase. 
My love has been one that has suffered tortures for 
you; that has kept, in the face of thieves and alley 
rats, its virtue for you; that a myriad times over 
has borne your children and burned them up in its 
own fire because you did not know it; that has 
drudged and starved and given away the world to 
sit itself down on the cobbles and gloat on the sight 
of you! 

“I have sat in your way, as you saw me sitting 
this morning, day after day, at least a thousand 
times, and never before had you even looked at me! 
With my soul in a hellish heaven and my body in the 


THE FIGHTING IRIS 


383 


gutter, month after month I have been sitting with 
mj lap full of moon blossoms for you! I have 
named you my white iris, my fighting iris, waving in 
the wind, the slender green leaf for your punt a, sil¬ 
vered by the moonlight and plunging at the bull, 
the white petals for your skin. For love of you, I 
would have gone and brought a flower from the 
moon, and been cheerfully moonstruck. That is 
what we are called, we poor women who go mad for 
bullfighters—moonstruck; and in my madness I have 
gone into the reaches of my soul and planted the 
moonflowers there for you. 

“But now I am gloriously, gloriously freed. When 
you saw me at last, and spat down a coin at my 
adoring look, I saw what it was I loved—an empty 
vessel, with the picture of a contemptuous brute 
upon it. My love died then and there, and when I 
spat at you, my thralldom ended. For years, your 
name has rung in my ears as I would breathe it tell¬ 
ing you of my love, and at last I speak it— Lirio , 
Lirio , Lirio!" Her voice rang down the syllables 
metallically as coins. “It means no more to me now 
than my own common name, Maria, for I do not love 
you, Lirio, any longer.” 

“You do! You do!” shouted Lirio furiously. 
“And I will prove it to you! If you have ever loved 
me as you say, you can never resist me if I choose 
to make you again! I am not quite the fool you two 
have taken me for, and I know that much about the 
life you swear by! You jade, I want you now, and 
I will have you! I came here to put you in jail, 
but there is another way to vanquish you, and I 
will do it!” He took a step toward her, his eyes 
alight, his lips trembling. “Do you think you will 


334 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


sing the same tune of contempt when I have got you 
in my arms?” 

“You arena beast, be still!” thundered Padre 
Pedro, and he tried to push the woman toward the 
doorway. But, with a gasp of fright, she clung to 
him and slipped behind him, and with an excited 
laugh, and one spring of his graceful figure, the 
fighter had marooned them beside the armchair in 
the farthest corner. 

“What more would she have asked yesterday?” 
he demanded. “She has told me how she adored me, 
and it has made me desire to be loved like that! 
You woman of the moon, you shall know the man 
you have flouted! I can see in your face that you 
fear yourself already! One kiss of mine on those 
white lips of yours, and, priest or no priest, you 
would give me the soul out of your body!” 

“God! God!” the padre heard her moan behind 
him. “God pity me! God save and pity me!” 

But his own voice rose loudly over hers. 

“I would not have thought it would please God,” 
he cried, “to make me, a priest, fight a bullfighter for 
a woman’s soul, but I will cheerfully do it! Can I 
trust your honour as a sportsman? If I worst you 
until this woman can fly the house, will you be satis¬ 
fied and quit my town?” 

Lirio laughed excitedly again. 

“I agree!” he cried. “But be it on your head! 
You are a priest and an old one, but you have 
harassed and humiliated me, and now you insanely 
force me into this! I will not hurt you if I can 
help it, but I am going to cover that woman with 
kisses, across your arm if you make me, and across 
a broken one if it has to be! So beware!” 


THE FIGHTING IRIS 


335 


“Beware you!" cried the priest. “Take that!" 

There was a flash of bright red in the fighter’s 
eyes, and, blinded, with a cry of astonishment and 
pain, he reeled back. When he opened his stinging 
eyes, he stood like a dazed, dying bull, blinking at 
colours as vivid as the arena’s—the blue and glinting 
silver of the curtains, the flash of the woman’s yel¬ 
low gown as she ran to the door, the red of the 
great, ruddy drops dripping from his face onto his 
trembling hands; through which evolved the black 
figure of the calm old priest as he quietly set his 
empty wineglass on the arm of the chair and stepped 
to the doorway to watch the woman’s flight. 

Her voice, triumphant, high, hysterical, rang 
back to them as she sped through the moonlight: 

“Free! Free! Free!" 

When the padre turned again, the fighter was 
standing in the centre of the room. His head was 
bent, his shoulders were drooping under the bril¬ 
liant cape, the statuesque figure was trembling. For 
the second time that day the cameo face was wet, 
and the priest, as he gazed at it, thought that the 
wine was not unmixed with water. 

He put his hand on one of the drooping shoul¬ 
ders. 

“My son,” he said gently, “if you want to, you 
can make life your friend.” 

“Stop it! Stop it!” cried Lirio wildly. “You 
are a wicked man, and that woman is a harpy! I 
was the greatest figure in Spain till I saw you two 
this morning, and in every way possible you have 
abused me and disgraced me! You had no right to 
put that business about life into my head—you had 
no right to! Nor the woman her moonflowers, and 


336 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


what love does to people ! I was perfectly happy 
this morning! Let me alone!” 

And with shoulders still bent and his hands shak¬ 
ing behind him abhorrently from under his cape, he 
stepped through the doorway. 

A full, blazing sun was yellowing the great sweep 
of hills and vega , and reddening the heavy grapes 
in the terraced vineyards. It was hot, back-break¬ 
ing, masculine work, this gathering and pruning 
and carrying, but high up Terassa’s hillside, in a 
long line of sinuous corduroyed forms, was a wom¬ 
an’s figure. In its bright-coloured cotton dress, it 
was delicate and graceful, yet vigorous, active as 
any near-by man’s. Now and again she stopped her 
work—but this was for pleasure, not rest—to gaze, 
with indrawn breath, across the gorgeous valley or 
up at the pretty town. Under its sun-tan, her face 
was full of soft colour; behind the deep blue of the 
eyes lurked the light of contentment. Suddenly she 
stopped, for neither rest nor pleasure. A chance 
phrase had reached her from the vineyard chatter. 

“Lirio, I tell you!” 

“I do not believe it!” 

“It is here, printed, in the periodico /” 

A newspaper from the city was being passed along 
the line of workers. The woman sent her hands and 
eyes steadfastly back to their work, but a shiver of 
memory had gone ominously through her. 

“What good is the paper when we cannot read?” 

“Shall we run to the padre?” 

“No, hand it to Marfa—she can read!” 

“Here, Marfa, it is a tragedy of the bull ring! 
Read it aloud to us!” 


THE FIGHTING IRIS 


337 


Her sight dimmed for a moment as she stood sur¬ 
rounded by them, but her voice was steady as she 
read out the great type that heralded the fighter’s 
downfall: 

“Lirio runs from the bull. Rewelcomed by a vast 

crowd-Fought brilliantly and daringly up to the 

muerte -As he looked over the sword into the bull’s 

eye—seized with panic—threw down his sword and ran 

from the bull-Hooted from the arena and jeered 

through the streets-Spain’s greatest fighter, ruined, 

disappears.” 

Thick smoke and thick voices rose to the low ceil¬ 
ing and struck against the walls. The drinks in the 
shop were simple wines, but the place, with its 
patronage, was like a bowl holding the dregs of a 
mixed potion. It was near the docks and alongside 
the coal yards, and any one hunting for humanity 
in the faces there would have had to peer through 
the stubble of untended beards as well as the heavy 
fumes. 

“Who saw Cocherito fight to-day?” 

“I did. A great fight!” 

“Greater than Lirio?” 

“Lirio was never a great fighter. It was his 
looks.” 

“How the coward scuttled! It is a wonder where 
he vanished to.” 

“I know where he vanished to.” 

All the eyes in the shop went incredulously to the 
last speaker. He was a sordid one of them who had 
mixed his drinks. He had drunk red, then yellow, 
and had now before him a murky concoction of both 
that looked as if he had washed out the flag of his 
nativity in his glass. 






338 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


“Lirio went to the moon,” he said. 

A jeering laugh guffawed through the room, and 
the man next him shook his shoulder. 

“A friend of yours, then, is he?” 

The toper of mixed wines twitched his shoulder 
away from the grasp. 

“Lirio my friend? Would I admit that to you 
brutes? You are the sort that howled him from the 
ring and chased him through the city 1 But I am 
not afraid to say I am sorry for him. I tell you, 
too, I happen to know what ruined Lirio.” 

“Hear!” shouted a coal heaver across the room, 
and he whispered about him, grinning: “He is 
crazy! He will take to his green French drink now, 
and tell us his visions.” 

The drinker leaned excitedly forward, his fist on 
the table. 

“I have heard you say women did for him. You 
fools, it is not your wantons that take the fight out 
of a man—it is your chaste devils!” He waved at 
the shopkeeper. “Bring me my liquid moonlight! I 
know, for I have been loved more than all of you 
put together! Yes, laugh. I am not loved now—I 
confess it. That is why I drink this.” He held the 
glass of pale-green liquid high as he thinned its 
milky colour with water. “It makes me think that I 
am loved. Do you know what I see in this? It is 
moonlight, full of white flower petals. I do not ask 
you to drink to him, but be decent in your thoughts 
of Lirio!” 

He sprang up, his shoulders thrown back, the 
slim body suddenly developing through the slouched 
clothes a fine nobility of outline. But his posture 
threatened the quivering fluid, and he sat again heav- 


THE FIGHTING IRIS 


339 


ily. With his whole hand tight around the glass, he 
reached it unsteadily forth above the table. 

“Here is my toast, all you vain fools who think 
yourselves so strong and sane and such judges of 
the bullfight! Lift up your sane, strong wines and 
drink with me! To the women who grow moon- 
flowers”—he laughed, but there was a throbbing 
catch in the voice as it cried the words —“and to the 
men who gather them!” 

The shivering green liquid slipped slowly between 
the drawing lips; the moonlit brain slipped grad¬ 
ually into darkness; the body incasing it slipped, 
inch by inch, to the floor. 

A gray glimmer crept through the black window- 
panes; the gray figures crept, one by one, away. 
The shopkeeper stooped over the unconscious dere¬ 
lict. 

“Get up ! It is morning!” 

“Moonlight!” pleaded the man. “I have spent all 
my money in your shop ! Give me some of my moon¬ 
light!” 

“There is plenty of sunlight for you in the street!” 

“I do not want to see the sunlight!” begged the 
creature miserably. “Do you think I am a bull that 
you are shoving into the arena? Will you stick a 
thong between my shoulders presently?” 

The closing door struck the shoulders mercilessly, 
and he fell into the angle of the doorway. The sun, 
a ball of streaming red, had climbed above the glit¬ 
tering Mediterranean and was pouring gold into the 
dirty street, and he reached his shaking hands to¬ 
ward it. 

“Life! Life!” he cried, and slid down onto the 
doorstep. 


340 


TERASSA OF SPAIN 


Across from the docks, in the shadow of the 
fortress, stood a little bank for the savings of 
labourers, and coming toward it among the early 
customers was a woman from the country. There 
was something of the bright sunshine in her beau¬ 
tiful tanned face, something of the blue sea in her 
contented eyes, of the fresh morning air in her 
swinging walk. But all these vanished from her 
abruptly, as if a wind had wiped them away and 
brought her to a halt. The abject figure and bent, 
staring head had shocked her with recollection of 
a time when she had been unhappy, and, with her 
heart sickened by its own understanding of human 
wretchedness, she glanced hesitantly at the bank, 
caught her breath, and tossed her whole purse to 
him. It burst open against his knee, and the coins 
rattled over the cobbles. 

As he looked up, she stood as if frozen to the 
sidewalk. Their eyes met, and the feeble lustre in 
his grew to a stronger and stronger light of rage. 
He struggled to his feet, his purpose written hideous¬ 
ly in his face—to spit at her. 

But as he stepped toward her, he saw what was 
shining in hers—a great light of grief and pity and 
remembered love that, as she vainly strove to breathe 
his name, swept her arms involuntarily open to him 
there in the street. For a moment wonder and con¬ 
fusion battled in his face; then, with a faint sob, the 
wrecked creature stumbled into them. 


APPRECIATIONS AND REVIEWS 
OF “THE GREAT WAY” 


Some Personal Letters 

No one who has been overwhelmed by the 
masterly march of it can ever forget it. . . . There 
is not a banal, or even an unoriginal sentence in the 
book. . . . And the man’s demigod-like humor! . . . 
A new first-magnitude star in the sky of American 
literature.— Gelett Burgess. 

One of the most wonderful and fascinating pieces 
of literature that has come into my hands in many 
years.— George Barr Baker. 

The book has the “grand manner” of genius to a 
degree never before attained in a novel by an 
American. There is a surety of style, an airy ease 
of startling expression, a cosmopolitan quality of 
scene and circumstance, and, above all else, a sympa¬ 
thetic reading of human passion, that remind, inevi¬ 
tably, of Balzac. Dulce is sheer delight. . . . One 
could write a book about the book!— Charles Fred¬ 
eric Nirdlinger. 

A great book, vital, colorful, splendidly dramatic, 
and containing chapter after chapter of sheer 
beauty, of word-painting as rare in books by Ameri¬ 
can authors as it is refreshing. Yet beneath the 
341 


342 APPRECIATIONS AND REVIEWS 


dazzling loveliness of its style lies a gripping, 
poignant human story.— Frederic Arnold Kummer. 

No book of modern times has affected me as 
Fish’s book has done.— William van Wyck. 

It is a most fascinating book exquisitely written. 
In the first place it is a great story—one’s interest 
is sustained from beginning to end. Then the char¬ 
acterization is so well sustained—the primitive girl 
with all the superstitions of the uneducated—with 
her temperament, her genius, and then her amazing 
and delicious simplicity. She was adorable.— Dr. 
Millicent Cosgrave. 

A great book—in many ways a very great book.— 
James Howard Kehler. 

The novel strikes me as extraordinary . . . 
through the whole there runs a thread of absolute 
fidelity to life that binds it into a firm texture and 
which can be followed through the pattern. It 
really, to my mind, is tremendous, but not in its 
words—it is in what is written between the lines, to 
be understood only by those who know that they are 
treading the Great Way.— George H. Sargent. 

It is, I feel confident, bound to be a “best seller.” 
There are both beauty and power in the novel. . . . 
Fish has a great talent.— Arthur Somers Roche. 

The best piece of fiction I have read since Rol- 
land’s “Jean Christophe.”— Henry F. DePuy. 


OF “THE GREAT WAY” 


343 


Signed Appreciations 

I would rather have written this book than any I 
have read in the last ten or twelve years.— Frank 
Harris in Pearson's Magazine . 

A book which one reads spellbound, which arouses 
all one’s enthusiasm, and the memory of which will 
mellow to an equal fragrance with “Manon Lescaut,” 
“La Vie de Boheme,” and those all too rare master¬ 
pieces. . . . Mr. Fish has the gift of tongues, by 
which I mean that his selection of the right word is 
remarkable. . . . Given the space to quote, it would 
be difficult to know what to leave out. The book is 
stuffed with gems of thought, word and deed. It is 
one to read quickly and intensely first of all, and then 
to go back and savor incident by incident, line by 
line.—A. Hamilton Gibbs in the Philadelphia Pub - 
lie Ledger. 

I don’t know when I have been so profoundly 
stirred by the sheer beauty of a book. It has more 
than that. It has power. It has the flavor that the 
connoisseur of old wines is forever seeking and never 
finding. In light and shade and color it is exquisite 
as ancient tapestry of intricate design. It is beau¬ 
tiful as things you think but cannot say because you 
are in love. It is in words what grand opera is in 
music. So poignantly real is the atmosphere that it 
fills you with aching nostalgia for places you have 
never seen, old Spain, Barcelona. ... In Dulce, 
fiction has scored a distinct triumph of creation. 
. . . “The Great Way” is a great book.— Medoria 
Field Perkerson in the Atlanta Journal. 


344 APPRECIATIONS AND REVIEWS 


To read “The Great Way” is to know that a writ¬ 
ten work has sprung in America from the soil which 
nourishes art; and that an author has dared a 
spiritual autobiography in terms of a realm evoked 
by himself, part Spanish, vivid and sombre, part 
operatic and romanesque. His theme is a woman’s 
Pilgrim’s Progress—the Gran Via that begins in the 
Trudge Market of Cadiz and finds its way, through 
the brilliant incitements of an opera-singer’s career, 
to a summit in the Pyrenees forsaken of all save God 
and love. This way into life he has illumined, lead¬ 
ing his protagonist always away from easy solaces 
and amenities. Horace Fish has made the Gran Via 
of his Spanish girl symbol, as life is symbol for those 
compelled to it, of a beauty more intense in relations 
perceived than in impulses gratified. His creation, 
Dulce, who flowers from street girl into the impetu¬ 
ous and jewel-like Madame de l’Etoile, shows him 
to be one who knows no word or gesture can be 
irrelevant, finding life and art, living and expression 
to be one. 

To some his work will have Murillo-quality; to 
others perhaps it will recall the gay, sad, and incur¬ 
ably romantic days of Du Maurier; and a few will 
point out that he has improvised such idiom as failed 
him of Spanish picture or speech. What does it 
matter? He has poured into a formal mold the ur- 
gence which can make no other use of the gift of 
voice or the magic of words than to give them to the 
world. His achieved form encompasses sensitive 
friendships of women and men for his pilgrim. 
There are Goyaesque vignettes of priest, gypsy and 
nun, intimations of color-intoxicated seeing—and 
strains of the comic in a fat countess and an English 


OF “THE GREAT WAY” 


345 


maid, “Gwendolean.” Above all the illusion is cre¬ 
ated of a woman lovingly and intimately understood. 

The necessities of narrative up to the blast of fate 
upon Dulce’s operatic triumph are unerringly under¬ 
stood. When Dulce curses God and defies him, and 
calls to herself out of the dusk of the deserted opera 
house a stage hand—only to recognize in him the 
Jaime forsaken years before in Barcelona—then one 
knows there has been at work a dramatic sense 
capable of making events express its interpretation 
of life. This scene and that lovely and musical sing¬ 
ing of Dulce alone on the summit of Montserrat, as 
the stars in the heavens stand still, are imprint of 
dramatist and poet. Nothing is set down that has 
not been undergone. 

Dulce’s whimsies with her maestro, the magnifi¬ 
cent rape of two gaudy parokeets from the fat 
Countess Paulownia, the inmost confessions Dulce 
writes for her lost Jose Luis, all the quick meaning 
given to meetings of friends, testify that the book 
has been passed entire through the writer’s con¬ 
science. It has issued solid and ponderable. It is not 
therefore as experimenter in prose that one thinks of 
Horace Fish, though he seems sometimes to have 
achieved Dorothy Richardson’s goal without having 
first dined off Henry James. He possesses reti¬ 
cences that form sharp pictures. The pages are few 
in the chapter “Immaculada Noche,” wherein Dulce 
apparels herself and spreads a white mantilla for the 
feet of Jose Luis—to be struck down by a message 
announcing his departure. One feels as one reads 
“Plaza de Toros,” that one steer after another is 
slain in the bull ring, and still one is conscious only 
of the unseeing face of the girl watching. 


346 APPRECIATIONS AND REVIEWS 


Horace Fish’s medium becomes transparent as he 
has given himself to the symbology of words and of 
life. He, like Dulce in her quest, like all creative 
spirits in whatever medium, is embarked upon the 
experiment of finding out what words mean by 
wringing from them their utmost. He makes them 
leave upon the reader’s consciousness at times a sedi¬ 
ment as impalpable as the color of a changing 
sky. 

Precisely therefore as one knows expression to be 
the song of widening consciousness, to use Charles 
Duncan’s phrase, are these hot, iridescent or musical 
passages, in which Horace Fish renders the evanes¬ 
cent feeling in men and women, modern in their 
drift and at once of the nature of the classic in 
Hartley’s sense who spoke of classic as being the 
outline of things that endure. 

Horace Fish has achieved something out of 
America, rare anywhere, worthy to endure. He has 
been untouched apparently by the prevalent moods 
of complaint and rancor. He is neither in the pulpit 
nor of the dingy machine-sodden mob. Life in its 
magnificence could not pass him by without this ges¬ 
ture from him of recognition. His Dulce is aristo¬ 
crat in her swift appraisals. The aristocrat in him 
has acknowledged itself to be compounded of love 
and the knife-keen vision known as truth. Such a 
man and such a work must have flowered in seclu¬ 
sion and leisure, however harshly imposed, where 
self might spread its wings. The individual traits 
of that experience are the possession of Horace Fish. 
Its record in “The Great Way” constitutes a 
magical record of the human.— Herbert J. Selig- 

MANN. 


OF “THE GREAT WAY” 


347 


Scintillating enough to make one finish quite 
breathlessly a book almost 500 pages long. Dulce 
is beautifully imagined, an entirely sympathetic 
heroine. . . . “The Great Way” is a very fine book. 
... It gives remarkable insight into Spanish char¬ 
acter and customs, has much beauty in many pas¬ 
sages, and is a decidedly “different” sort of romance. 
—John Y. A. Weaver in the Brooklyn Daily Eagle. 

The book is powerfully conceived. The author’s 
style is rich and colorful. ... A finished study of 
Spanish temperament, a mature and mellow delinea¬ 
tion of what is essentially Spanish, as compared 
with what is innately American or English. . . . 
The consistently picturesque blending of passionate 
love and brightly colored scenes gives “The Great 
Way” an impetus toward splendor that is greatly 
enhanced by the reader’s certainty that this author 
will not turn out books by the yard, nor vie with any 
popular mechanic of tales for his place in the affec¬ 
tions of the American public.— Dorothy Hoskins 
in the Houston Post. 

If we have stirred somebody’s interest to a point 
of contact with Mr. Fish’s work, we shall be glad. 
“The Great Way” interested us deeply as we read 
it . . . the story of the little Dulce from Cadiz, 
with her sweetness, her sin, her wonder time of sing¬ 
ing, and her afterward. Of course, in the back¬ 
ground is the problem of an age-old sisterhood in 
frailty.—E. W. Osborn in the New York World. 

Big, solid, giving the whole of a life. Mr. Fish 
... is altogether competent, and often strikes posi- 


348 APPRECIATIONS AND REVIEWS 


tive fire. His book has color, spirit, fine dramatic 
handling of characters, and more real Spain in it 
than all the works of old Blasco rolled into one.— 
John Gunther in the Chicago Daily News. 

It is indeed a close-grained story, showing slow 
and solid growth up to its present ample propor¬ 
tions.— Keith Preston in the Chicago Daily News. 

The theme—voluntary payment to society for an 
infringement of its law—is finely conceived. . . . 
The first part of the story is delicately impregnated 
with the tinted atmosphere of Spain and the charac¬ 
terization of Dulce is charming and vivid. ... The 
whole undertaking—not a small one—exhibits sin¬ 
cerity of purpose, fine grain of idealism and an 
ability that lifts it above the class of “mere stories” 
into that of the novel of serious intention and merit. 
—Elsie Kaisinger in the Philadelphia North 
American. 

“The Great Way” is a novel of remarkable virtu¬ 
osity.—H. W. Boynton in The Independent and 
Weekly Review. 

Books are events in my life. Meeting new books 
means as much or as little to me as meeting people. 
And about Dulce I must write in this column, given 
over each fortnight to the most important impres¬ 
sion I wish to chronicle. Out of nowhere Dulce came 
into my room, into my heart. I met her one wonder¬ 
ful evening in Spain. I sat at a table near hers in a 
coffee house in Cadiz. Her laughter rang into my 
heart, I could not but follow her. I walked beside 
her when she cried and my heart ached for her. I 


OF “THE GREAT WAY” 


349 


travelled with her hand in hand along the Great 
Way. I was not the reader of a book, not the on¬ 
looker while life unrolled a few scenes of its tensest 
drama in glaring colors. Horace Fish lifted me out 
of time and space. His pages were my magic carpet 
for one whole delightful night. Every sentence a 
painting. Every word an inimitable touch of color. 
And Dulce became my Dulce for this one night. . . . 
Dulce is a perfect creation of a master artist. . . . 
I must thank Mr. Fish for the exquisite and unfor¬ 
gettable hours he gave me, those golden hours whose 
memory will linger in my heart as long as I live.— 
Guido Bruno in Bruno's Review of Two Worlds. 

Until last week, the novel which headed the list in 
my year’s reading, that stood miles above “Main 
Street,” was “Howard’s End.” That has now 
dropped to second, and “The Great Way,” by 
Horace Fish, takes its place. Here is a book pos¬ 
sessing the subtle qualities of unity and vigor of 
narration. The characters live. ... Life is photo¬ 
graphed accurately by delicate descriptive touches. 
. . . The man who can’ write as Fish writes must 
combine a rare penetration with a rare candor and 
honesty of mind.— Charles J. Finger in All’s Well. 

Horace Fish is an artist. Words are colors with 
him, and never was there a Corot or Turner who 
made colors with more lights and shadows convey 
more vivid pictures than Horace Fish does in this 
novel. . . . The first living portrait of a woman in 
American letters since Hawthorne produced Hester 
Prynne. . . . “The Great Way” is indeed a great 
book—great in psychological analysis and great in 


350 APPRECIATIONS AND REVIEWS 


sustaining interest from cover to cover. It is the 
novel of many a decade.—S. B. in The Jewish Times. 

I am exceedingly loath to write what might be 
called a criticism of any book so truly remarkable 
as I consider “The Great Way,” for the reason that 
the skill of Mr. Fish as a novelist is manifestly so 
far superior to mine as a critic that I fear in han¬ 
dling him I shall do so in an awkward manner which 
will be no compliment to him whom I wish to com¬ 
pliment most highly. After wading through un¬ 
countable volumes of trash, to come upon such a 
work of genius as “The Great Way” is a joy not to 
be lightly passed over. To have read it is an ex¬ 
perience to be stored up and remembered in darker 
days. . . . With a genius for revealing character 
through conversation and with little actual descrip¬ 
tion, Mr. Fish has created not only Dulce, but also 
a world of subordinate characters who are grave or 
gay according to their natures, who react to real 
emotions, and who live their lives as such people 
would actually live; in short, who are real people, 
and who serve to fill out a complete picture, drawn 
as Michael Angelo would draw it, with bold brush 
strokes, and a fine attention to detail. Mr. Fish is 
called a stylist. Such style is inimitable, but it 
would be a grand day for the “dear reader” if some 
of the literary ladies and gentlemen of our day would 
read and profit thereby.—E. A. in the Chicago 
Journal of Commerce . 

Other Reviews 

One of the great books of the year, this marks the 
author as a stylist, although his work in the short- 


OF “THE GREAT WAY” 


351 


story line was well known previously. It is a power¬ 
ful, moving story of a Spanish girl and her ca¬ 
reer, full of the glamour and color of Spain, although 
it also deals with this country, France, Russia and 
England. The heroine is a sort of “Zaza,” a girl of 
the streets and cafes, but ambitious and truthful. 
Through love, she abandons her immoral life and 
becomes a very famous opera singer, striving all the 
time to make reparation for her early errors and to 
fit herself for the love she some day hopes will be 
hers. Throughout the book the author is very frank 
and outspoken. He calls a spade a spade, and makes 
no apologies. His story is one adult readers will 
find immensely interesting, for he has gotten beneath 
the surface of things and has written of Spain as no 
other American has done in years. The passionate, 
colorful life of the heroine is depicted in masterly 
manner and in a way to play upon the sympathies 
as few writers have been able to.—Boston Globe. 

It is a long time since we read a romance as beau¬ 
tiful and moving as Mr. Fish’s story of the Spanish 
street-walker who becomes a great singer, and, hav¬ 
ing the world at her feet, tastes still the bitterness of 
her early days. Not since Mr. Shorthouse have we 
had a novelist who, dealing with the sense of sin and 
repentance as the theme of a novel, has yet been able 
to fill his story with such a glow of life as is seen and 
felt in the book before us. . . . Mr. Fish has begun 
with a masterpiece .—Pall Mall Gazette , London. 

An atmospheric magic pervades the first part of 
“The Great Way” that is entirely successful in con¬ 
veying to the reader the life of the Spanish town. 


352 APPRECIATIONS AND REVIEWS 


Inside of a very few pages Horace Fish leads his 
reader into the whirl of an existence that is more 
sultry than our own, an existence enveloped in 
bright, hot sunshine and as bright and hot in its 
passions of love and jealousy as that same sunlight. 
. . . The novel is one that is deserving of all praise. 
—New York Times . 

The author of this book has an unusually good 
story to tell.—London Times. 

“The Great Way,” by Horace Fish, is a vivid soul 
picture—the soul of a woman, and the soul of a 
country, Spain. It is the story of a love that raises 
a woman of the streets from the mud of the “Trudge 
Market” to the pinnacles of fame; the story of such 
moral, mental and artistic development as is seldom 
equaled. . . . Dulce, in her girlish charm and her 
adult beauty, is a figure of extraordinary appeal; 
she is likable despite her wrongdoings, lovable in her 
earliest efforts to rise above them, and a woman to 
marvel at in the end. With a faith in God that bet¬ 
ter people might envy her, the girl follows the path 
she has set herself. The friendships she makes, the 
hardships she overcomes, the difficulties she faces 
and overcomes, are told by the author grippingly 
and, despite their unusualness, convincingly.—Phila¬ 
delphia Public Ledger. 

A tremendous romance. It discloses immense 
power and beauty in moods that challenge the su¬ 
preme moments of Zola. The writing is extraordi¬ 
narily vital and vivid. Among current productions 
“The Great Way” uplifts itself beyond rivalry.— 
Dundee Advertiser. 


OF “THE GREAT WAY” 


353 


Has life, dramatic power . . . and a striking cen¬ 
tral idea . . . assuredly out of the commonplace. 
... It has much extraordinarily vivid and moving 
description and its portrayal of elemental human 
passions is often masterly.—New York Evening 
Post . 

A crowded gallery of real, living men and women. 
... A remarkable achievement.—Birmingham Post. 

For intensity of emotion, expressed in ever- 
changing word color and word music, it stands apart 
from all the rest of the day’s fiction.—New York 
Herald. 

Few first novels of this century have approached 
this one for splendour of descriptive writing.—Lon¬ 
don Daily Graphic. 

The book has the force of passion, pity and in¬ 
sight.—New York Sun. 

“The Great Way” is an unusually good novel. 

. . . Mr. Fish has created a lovely, captivating 
woman (a darling!). . . . The style is strongly in¬ 
dividual. Mr. Fish uses words with the elegant jus¬ 
tice of a connoisseur, and his similes are often very 
striking. . . . Much of his story passes in Cadiz and 
Barcelona, and makes us intimate with those sunny 
cities. It passes to Paris, New York and London, 
and there are pictures of the nerve-state of a great 
singer during the ordeal of an opening night in a 
new capital, which have not, to my knowledge, been 



354 APPRECIATIONS AND REVIEWS 


surpassed. The characters are lively originals who 
live as soon as they begin to talk—Mr. Fish has that 
valuable gift.—London Star. 


“The Great Way,” by Horace Fish, is one of those 
unusual books which appear occasionally to prove 
that the art of writing has not been lost in the 
scramble for “quantity production” of books. It is 
a tale of Spain, yet such a tale as no modern for¬ 
eign writer has yet produced of that romantic land. 
Irving wrote some wonderful stories of Spain, but it 
was the Spain of ancient times. Several native 
novelists of note have written vivid stories of mod¬ 
ern Spain, but it has remained for Mr. Fish to be 
the first of modern Americans to interpret the pres¬ 
ent life of that country in terms one can understand 
and enjoy. ... It is strong and vivid in its nature 
and treatment, and the style is pleasing and fin¬ 
ished.—Rochester Democrat and Chronicle. 


The author, like Hardy, has that rare gift of 
communicating to the world what he himself sees and 
feels, and of making mere trifles suddenly significant 
and illuminating. Beneath his touch Spain reveals 
herself, a land possessing “horror, fear, joy, roman¬ 
tic love,” and with a soul “sinister, inevitable, and 
gay.” Dulce is a true daughter of Spain ... an 
untutored girl of the streets, but with the mysticism, 
the passionate power and the beauty of the home¬ 
land. On the surface she is beautiful, mercurial, 
artistic to the finger-tips, but at heart a wild ele¬ 
mental woman filled with an inexorable purpose and 
an enduring love.—Aberdeen Free Press. 


OF “THE GREAT WAY” 


355 


Gorgeous, vivid romance of a Spanish Magdalen, 
written by a man who has the soul of a poet. It 
out-Lockes Locke .—The Spur. 

Mr. Fish has a good story to tell about his lovely 
and lovable heroine.—London Daily Express. 

It took Horace Fish eight years to write “The 
Great Way”—with the result that the author has 
established for himself a name as a stylist such as 
few American writers have enjoyed since Hawthorne. 
—San Francisco Argonaut. 

He has a gift for making picturesque scenes and 
evoking the receptive mood. Dulce ... is often 
extraordinarily attractive and real.—London Ob¬ 
server. 

“The Great Way,” by Horace Fish, will be hailed 
with delight by a big public. With scenes shifting 
from the sparkling city of Barcelona to Paris and 
then to London, and dramatis personae varying all 
the way from folk of the highest rank to scene 
shifters and street girls, the story is a veritable 
kaleidoscope of color, action and passion.—Buffalo 
Express. 

The struggle Dulce makes to atone for her sin and 
to vindicate herself in the eyes of society after love 
has made her position hideous is quite wonderfully 
told.—Colorado Springs Gazette. 

What, in a measure, Rafael Sabattini did in 
“Scaramouche” for revolutionary France and a man, 
Mr. Horace Fish has done in “The Great Way” for 


356 APPRECIATIONS AND REVIEWS 

modern Spain and a woman. Simply, he has laid 
before our eyes the color of the land, the daily life of 
its people, the soul of a human who, at every turn of 
the story, is still more startling in her humanness. 
And Mr. Fish presents his remarkable work in a 
literary manner, the complete individuality of which 
may be said to eclipse even that of the noted Lon¬ 
doner. He has gone into all the crevices of Spanish 
life and turned their secrets out for his readers to 
see and understand. He has placed, too, in the cen¬ 
ter of this clearly visualized background, a woman, 
Dulce, in the conception of whom Mn Fish estab¬ 
lishes his right to a place among the best living 
novelists.—Cincinnati Enquirer, 

Recent literature has given us no novel more dis¬ 
tinctive in type, more purposeful in concept, more 
picturesque in setting, more human in sympathy than 
Horace Fish’s story, “The Great Way.” Dulce— 
the “Maid of Cadiz”—at 16 a girl of the streets—is 
such a creation as one must look to Hugo or Balzac 
for. It is not the soul of Dulce, but of woman, as 
she is tempted, as she is betrayed, as she rises, with 
inherent beauty and strength of nature, into her true 
sphere—it is this woman-soul that the author fol¬ 
lows through its development to its triumph. . . . 
There is a beautiful fabric in Mr. Fish’s prose; it 
weaves an intriguing and mysterious pattern. . . . 
The picture the author gives of the woman in her last 
exaltation is too vivid a piece of word-painting to be 
criticised.—Louisville Courier-Journal. 


IN PREPARATION 
THE SAINT’S THEATRE: A novel 







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